


The Hail Mary Play

by artanis_aman



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, D/s, Dom Phil Coulson, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Tension, Sub Clint Barton, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artanis_aman/pseuds/artanis_aman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Coulson.  I really think this kid can be something, but the way it’s panning out, I might have to cut him loose.”</p><p>Phil sighs.  Because Clint Barton should not be cut loose—his potential is extraordinary.  Phil has read the simulated mission reports and seen the kid himself on the range.  </p><p>But Clint is cocky, mouthy, and defensive—which wouldn’t be all that bad expect that Clint is a sub, which also wouldn’t make things that bad except Clint has never been successfully put down into subspace.  By anyone.  Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Phil fixes Fury with an even stare. Fury knows Phil’s “what the fuck did you just suggest face” like nobody else at SHEILD, but unfortunately is significantly less intimidated by it. Well, not intimidated at all by it, actually.

“Coulson.  I really think this kid can be something, but the way it’s panning out, I might have to cut him loose.”

Phil sighs.  Because Clint Barton should not be cut loose—his potential is extraordinary. Phil has read the simulated mission reports and seen the kid himself on the range.  But Clint is cocky, mouthy, and defensive—which wouldn’t be all that bad expect that Clint is a sub, which also wouldn’t make things that bad except Clint has never been successfully put down into subspace. By anyone.  Ever.

Phil still can’t believe the archer is so functional. If Phil goes two weeks without dipping into his drive, he starts to get snappy and then obsessive compulsive, well more obsessive, and then he micro manages every living thing within a 10 block radius—fine 12.

As soon as a sub hits puberty their first instinct is to find the right Dom, bare their neck, and be brought to that sweet calming place that settles and resets them.  Barton is a fucking marvel to SHIELD psychologists.  By all professional accounts, Barton’s mental and physical health should be so shot that he shouldn’t be able to get dressed on his own. But that is so, so not the case.  It’s remarkable, really.

As it stands, Barton’s partner Natasha Romanov, who he met through the foster care system, is the only Dom that has had any kind of success with Clint and is probably the only reason Clint is still sane. But their very apparent lack of sexual chemistry is more hurtful in Clint’s case then helpful and it may be hard for him to submit to someone who is a sister like figure and/or professional peer.  Phil assumes the last bit from experience.

Phil presses his lips together. He thought he was so beyond training newbies.  He says as much to Fury.

“Phil, Cheese, you’re this kid’s last shot. He’s cycled through all my high level handlers.  Even Maria threw in the towel. I wouldn’t come to you if I had other options.” Fury scratches the back of his head—a gesture that is very telling to someone like Phil who has known Fury since they were both army rangers.

Phil thinks about the situation. Clint and Natasha came as a packaged deal. Natasha stipulated so in her contract. And if Clint is extraordinary, Natasha is even better.  More than that, SHEILD does not want THAT working for other organizations—she is a force onto herself.

“Natasha will walk if Clint gets booted.” Phil states the truth, he doesn’t have to ask.

“I want him in the organization Phil, but I _need_ her.”

Phil sighs. “Fine. I’ll transfer my agents out to other handlers.  I’ll take over Romanov and Barton and will only work with them for the time being. Seems they’ll need my full attention.”

“How long do you think before you’ve got them up and running?”  Fury is already standing, his mouth twitching in its attempt to hide a grin.

“Unsure.  I’ll have to see how we work together.  Let’s say if there is no progress in 6 months, then we revisit the drawing board. Maybe there is a way to keep Romanoff in the field and Clint employed.”  Phil pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I know.”  Fury says from the door frame. “I owe you.”

“Log it.” Phil gives Fury a meaningful look because yes, he actually owes him and Phil plans on using this favor somewhere down the line.

Fury nods once.

Once his Boss is gone, Phil takes a deep breath and immediately begins planning out his next steps. There are mission reports to finish, and briefs to wrap up, and agents to transfer out and a fucking psycho-cocky sub mystery with good aim to get prepped for.

 

-0-

 

By the end of the week, Clint is informed that Phil will be Natasha and his new handler. Phil drafts the letter himself explaining the prep work he wants from them and where their first meeting will be.

In preparation Phil pours over Clint’s file—explicitly ignoring the haunted look in the archer’s eyes.  One, because there is no need for him to go all over-protective Dom before he even meets the kid and two, because Clint’s eyes are also compelling, and intriguing, and _alright_ attractive and Phil doesn’t need _those_ thoughts lurking around his head.

So, with the archer’s picture intentionally turned over, Phil reviews Clint’s file for the ninth, no tenth, yes, tenth time.

Phil circles through the facts again--Clint ran away to the circus after his parents died when he was seven or eight. He went with his older brother, whose whereabouts are unknown.  There, he likely experienced some degree of physical and mental abuse. He was discovered by a child protective case worker when he was 16. In his first group home he met Romanoff—who was an unaccompanied minor refugee from Russia—and they teamed up.

They bailed the group home by the time Clint was 17 and were turning small jobs before Clint was 18. For about 6 years the two stayed on the edges of the radar until a particularly public and impressive (for no formal training) take down of two rivaling drug lords in Miami. They were picked up by the FBI because maybe some of their means to an end were illegal, but SHIELD got them before their talent was wasted in an overcrowded prison.  Not that they wouldn’t have busted out of that too.

Clint has had no noteworthy relationships with any Dom aside from Natasha and according to his own account has only ‘kinda gone into subspace, maybe, for like 5 seconds”.   According to Natasha he “has never been close to subspace. But I let him believe he has.”

Phil shakes his head. 

The kid really is a mystery.  Phil thought he might read the training plans from the other handlers and see glaring mis-steps and poor decisions but (aside from Sitwell who was the first and probably the worst choice ever) it seems his previous handlers had tried a lot of smart and creative approaches. Maria Hill got the furthest, and Phil isn’t surprised.  But she said apart from a thin layer of trust—she hit a wall that, in her opinion, was insurmountable.

Phil thinks people just need to stop giving up on the kid.  But maybe that’s his own pathological desire to fix and make better.

But really, the other side of things is that Clint’s aim is unprecedented.  And, in all the SHEILD simulations his tactical and strategic scores blow most mid-level agents and some high level agents out of the water.  Phil thinks, as he reviews the simulation, that while the archer talks a cocky game, he really is a bit more level with himself. He takes time to assess rather than arrogantly push forward and he does _consider_ the scripted handler information he gets, he just doesn’t always heed it, which Phil can see usually leads to better if not the best results.

And when Phil watches the two simulations where Clint works with Romanov—well, it takes his breath away.

Unfortunately, Phil can’t help but also appreciate the archer’s cat like grace or the way his face scrunches when he hears a suggestion from the scripted handler that he finds idiotic or the little side smirk that is half badass/half relief when he completes the staged mission.

Fine, maybe Fury did the right thing by pulling Phil in as the Hail Mary play.

Phil shuts his computer down before his file review of Barton slips officially into the wholly unprofessional. He’s made all the preparations for tomorrow and checked them over twice.  All that’s left is a good nights sleep. If he’s lucky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil breaks the ice and has a one-to-one with Clint :)

Phil is not surprised at all when Natasha and Clint enter his office together at exactly 9:15am. Phil invites them to sit, and puts a final Transfer Form to the side.

The two just watch him, waiting for him to make the first move.  It’s unerring how much natural assassin they both embody—and so young. Phil finds himself being impressed again.

“Thank you both for coming.”  He begins calmly.  He only gets the slightest acknowledgement from either of them. Clint’s posture is defensive, arms crossed and mouth twisted to look disinterested.  Romanov, on the other hand, looks ready to attack—her arms loose on the armrests and her breathing intentionally even.

Phil continues, “You both will find in time that I prefer transparency with my assets wherever and whenever possible.” Phil looks directly at Clint, “That being said, Fury approached me early this week about becoming your handler.” Clint’s glare hardens. “You both know that your past partnerships with handlers have been less then successful and Fury is concerned that if we can’t get you both settled soon then maybe SHEILD can’t give you what you need.”

Phil pauses and lets that sink in. It’s the truth. Phil never believed in sugar coating the truth. 

Phil doesn’t miss how Clint sinks minutely in his chair.

“I’ve drafted our training schedule. It’s clear to me that you too are far more advanced than at least the next three levels you have to clear. I’ve cleared you to level G of training and we’ll begin today.”  Phil doesn’t let himself smile when he sees Natasha and Clint exchange a surprised look. “If you perform as well as I expect you will, then it will give me reasonable cause to bump you up to level J or K.”

“I’m also modifying the way the training is run. I will act as your handler in your training missions so that we can get better acquainted and I can learn your strengths and preferences.  After this meeting we’ll go into what would be a real briefing on the mission and together we will discuss tactics and strategy.  I think we should clear the mission before next Tuesday. I trust you two followed the weapon and work-out regimen I assigned?”

Natasha nods once.

Phil reaches to the side and pulls out a folder while Clint and Natasha continue reviewing their entire training timeline (well timelines, plural, since Phil included a couple of contingency timelines because Phil has OCD about those things).

 “Do you have any questions?”

Phil waits.  He wants Clint, or even Natasha, to bring him to the next part of the agenda.

“What about me?” Clint asks defiantly.

“What about you, agent?” Phil counters.

Clint sucks his teeth, “What about the fact that I’m a crazy sub that might crack at any second if I don’t get fucked and put down into subspace.”

Phil scrunches his eyebrows. It’s made explicitly clear that subs don’t have to have a sexual relationship with their handler though the majority prefer it.  “Getting into subspace does not require sexual intercourse Agent Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes.  Natasha watches closely but stays removed.

“But while we’re on this topic—“ Phil opens a folder and pulls out two evaluation forms. “SHIELDS biggest concern is that you’re unstable.” Clint scoffs and Phil ignores it.

 “Therefore, instead of making the goal getting you down into subspace, we will try and reflect that you are a stable sub who can handle severe stress and anxiety. These—“ Phil turns two, four page packets (front and back) over to the agents. “are evaluation forms. The three of us are going to rate your progress, Barton, along the measures in there.  One of them is regarding the level of trust you have in me as your handler, others are more directly related to health and mental health. The more your assessment of yourself reflects agent Ramanov’s and mine” _i.e. Don’t Lie._ “the more stability I think you will reflect. When there is a big difference on one of these measures we will discuss it in our weekly group supervision.”

Clint and Natasha carefully review the form. Phil notices the way Clint’s lips press together and Phil remembers he gets that same face when he is deciding if it’s too early in the mission to take his shot. Apparently the gesture reflects genuine consideration—Phil files that away.

“I will have weekly one-to-one mentoring sessions with you agent Ramanov in addition to weekly supervision and group supervision. And you and I agent Barton will have daily one-to-one mentoring and weekly supervision and group supervision. After six months we’ll assess what is needed from there.”  Phil lets out a breath and waits a couple of beats.

“Now.  What in here do you think should be modified?”  Phil smiles internally at the briefest flash of confusion and suspicion that cross both agents’ faces.

Natasha speaks first, “I prefer weekly meetings to be early in the day before morning warm ups.”

A boundary test, Phil thinks he likes her more. “Noted. I am typically in the office by 7:30am, would 8:00am work?”

“Yes, that is fine.” She responds smoothly.

“Barton?” Phil inquires.

Clint’s eyes are so telling, his guarded stare thrown by Phil’s approach.  Clint’s eyes say that he is confused, off balance.  He doesn’t know what angle to work and what comes out is hopefully closer to the truth than anything Phil would have gotton if he hadn’t totally gone off script.

Phil is glad that at least this is working. He knows not to take this as a sign that Barton will somehow magically turn into Mr. Sub USA, but he has learned early on in this job to enjoy the little victories.

“I want to pick my own perches and I want a better bow than the shitty training one they gave me.”  His voice only comes out the slightest bit bitchy and Phil thinks its because he’s anxious.

“We’ll discuss perches on a mission by mission basis. But conceptually I don’t have a problem with that.  And, I’ll notify weapons of the upgrade.  Do you have a specific bow in mind?”

Clint glares, and Phil does not find it endearing in the slightest. “Anything is better than the piece of shit they gave me.”

“Noted.”

Phil lets the air settle.

“Alright.  Let’s go to the conference room to discuss the level G mission.” Phil stands and the two agents follow—their eyes watching him like he’ll shift into some kind of outlandish creature or wield some crazy magic spell and make them all go poof. Phi’s lips twitch as he leads the way down the hall.  He forgot how fun breaking in newbies are.  Well, more accurately, he forgot how fun a _real_ challenge is.

 

-0-

 

Phil reflects on the day.  The mission briefing had started slowly, the agents still feeling him out.  Once he made it clear that he valued and respected their opinion and was actually planning _with_ them not presenting a plan _to_ them—they both opened right up. Well, right up is a relative description.

Phil enjoyed the light in their eyes as they got into it.  Barton’s thinking face was new to Phil and he liked, maybe a little too much, how it looked on him. The archer was a bit sarcastic but much more constructively so when they got into the thick of things. By the end of three hours they had a great plan and two contingency plans (which Phil insisted on and which Natasha and Clint seemed to humor him with).  Phil believes they secretly like his ‘what if’ scenarios but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

But now, now is the hard part. Clint and him have their first one-to-one mentoring.

And Clint is late.

Phil sighs.

Clint knows this means punishment, which means he can avoid getting into the intimate details about why a Dom has never gotton him down before.  To everyone else he might seem cocky and mouthy and rude but all Phil saw today was a skittish, traumatized, incredibly resilient sub that has learned how to avoid attention he doesn’t want or when forced to, defend against it.

A full quarter hour past the arranged time, Clint comes swaggering in—chewing gum defiantly.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Phil restrains from rolling his eyes.

“What kept you?” Phil asks calmly, evenly.

Clint hesitates.  Maybe he didn’t think Phil would care. “I got caught up in practice.” His voice is gruff and Phil is surprised to hear the truth in it. It would make sense that the range would take the edge off for him, but that’s sadly not an excuse.

“Were you nervous?”

“No.” Clint snaps.

Phil smiles gently. “Okay. Are you ready now?”

Clint presses his lips together. “What’s the punishment then?”

Phil sighs as he looks over the archer. His body is tight with anxiety and nerves but his skin is taut with fatigue.  God he must be exhausted.  How long can a sub keep it together without any help at all?

“Strip.” Phil says after he pauses long enough that Clint is shifting uncomfortably.

Clint’s face falls, like maybe he had actually been hoping for Phil to be what he needed.  Phil clenches his fist so that he doesn’t lunge over to the man and smooth a hand through his dirty blonde hair and whisper how no one will ever hurt him again.  He doesn’t, but he wants to. And that’s scary. But Phil pushes it aside and waits.

Clint’s stripping down with the movements of someone resigned to their fate.  His hands pause over his briefs.

“Those can stay.” Phil supplies and watches those incredible shoulders and arms relax just a bit.

Clint stares at the ground, hands clasped in front.

“I want you to lie flat on your stomach. Your head in my direction and your arms at your sides.” Phil unbuttons and rolls up his sleeves. When Clint is in position, his body somehow wound tighter than when he came in, Phil speaks again. “I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

Phil swiftly moves across his quarters to the bathroom to get lotion.  When he returns his heart breaks a little because he thinks he sees Clint’s eyes watering at the rim. Poor thing, without his sightlines his mind has got to be going to all sorts of places.  Phil hurries to put him out of his misery.

“I’m going to touch your back, agent.” Phil waits, makes sure Clint processes that. “Your punishment, as you might have noticed, is being vulnerable with no sightlines and no information. You’re being punished because you lost track of time while practicing.” Phil pours some lotion on his hands and warms it up before digging into Clint’s tense shoulders.

Clint’s breath catches.

“Your reward for following directions when you got here without mouthing off or bolting is a massage.”  Phil can feel that Clint doesn’t think this is a reward, but Phil is determined to frame it that way.  He will not have his first session with Clint be soured by panic and negative reinforcement.

Phil keeps his touch just to Clint’s shoulders, upper back and arms. Touch is important between subs and Doms and not just in a sexual way. Touch implies trust, and both are crucial to making the connection work.  Phil doesn’t linger in any sensual way, just works at a couple of knots. He wants to tell Clint he’s beautiful and strong but that would be misinterpreted, so he doesn’t.

Phil also wants to memorize every inch of Clint’s shoulders, because god damn he’s never seen their rival.  But he doesn’t do that either. He keeps the massage to 5 minutes. To Clint it may seem like a half hour as he’s mostly just holding his breath.  Phil doesn’t like the discomfort but he has to build trust, and surprising Clint is one way to do it. 

When Phil is finished he backs off and sits back on the couch where he had been waiting.  Clint stays down, eyes squinted as he strains to hear his surroundings.

“You’re all set Clint, you can dress again.”

Phil is absolutely impressed by the speed with which Clint dons all of his clothing.  He’s about to shrug on his jacket before Phil raises a hand to stop him.

“Sorry agent, but its only been 10 minutes, sessions will be a little longer than that.”  He lets a soft humor bleed into his voice, hoping it takes the edge off.

Clint blinks away his disorientation, catches a glimpse of the digital clock in the kitchen and furrows his brows.

“Please take a seat Clint.” Phil motions to the recliner across from him.

Clint sits like he might fall through if he puts all his weight on it. Like he’s ready to bolt at the slightest sound.

“I wanted to start off easy, have you show me all your positions.  We were going to get into a good discussion of your experience with past handlers but I think you’ve had enough for the day.  How about you go through your paces and we call it a session?”

Clint nods absently.

Phil lowers his voice to just above a whisper “Clint. Look at me.” Clint’s green, gold eyes snap to Phil and Phil’s gut twists at the fear he sees there.  “Just show me your paces as I call them out and then we’ll be done.” 

Clint nods again, and clears his throat “Okay.”

“Okay,” Phil echos, “Present.”

Clint sinks down to his knees, head bowed, hand clasped in front.

“I’m going to make minor adjustments to your form, I want you to memorize them.”

Clint nods again.

Phil straightens Clint’s back a bit, and raises his chin so its parallel with the floor.  “Good, just like that, and remember to keep your eyes down like you’re doing.”

Phil continues on, calling out a position and watching as Clint’s body takes on the form. Phil is liberal with his praise and affirming with his adjustments.  And to Phil’s pleasant surprise, Clint settles into it, just a bit. Phil can’t be sure, but maybe the effect is meditative.  

“Downward present” Phil delivers the last call and gulps imperceptibly as Clint folds himself in half, hands wrapped comfortably around his spread ankles and ass high and raised in the air. “Beautiful.” Phil whispers and then curses in his head because he did NOT mean to say that out loud.

Clint blushes, and Phil curses again because God he just pictured Clint naked in downward present all flushed and begging.

“Okay agent, that’s good.  Lets do a bit of after care and you’ll be free to go.”

“Aftercare.” Clint’s expression is so textbook suspicious. “I wasn’t in subspace.” He adds accusingly, as if Phil was trying to convince him that he was.  Phil hides his look of sympathy, because Phil couldn’t _convince_ someone of that—the feeling is so unique and unmistakable that anyone who has had it even once would know.  But then, that’s why Clint is here.

Phil smiles, “I know you weren’t. But every session we have will include after care.”

“Why?” And Phil does smile because Clint sounds more like himself—mouthy and bratty.

“Because it’s the right thing to do, Barton.” Phil dips back into his Dom voice and wants to hurray when Clint sucks in a breath.

But the archer shuts down quickly and grumps out “Fine.”

Phil beckons Clint to kneel between his legs with his back to Phil’s crotch.  Phil runs his hands through Clint’s hair, down his neck and across his shoulders. He brushes his jaw, clenched tight. Soon, Phil thinks, Clint will associate this with safety and calm.  Right now, he’s fighting how much his body craves it. Phil wraps his arms around Clint for several long moments, trying to convey for just a few seconds how special he is, how special Phil believes he is, and then lets go.

“Okay Barton.  You did well.  Tomorrow we will have that conversation and I’d be very appreciative if you made it here on time.” Phil makes sure his voice is light, non-judgmental, non-authoritative.  A request, more than anything.

Clint is slow to stand and Phil watches him carefully. When the sub is fully on his feet he turns to face Phil. “Same time?” he rasps out.  Phil watches as Clint’s hands twist his jacket, his eyes averted.

“Yes.” Phil pauses and then “Unless another time is preferable?”

“No, this works.”  Clint’s still not looking him in the eye. But that’s alright. Phil thinks maybe he pushed him a bit too far.

“Good. Until tomorrow then.”

Clint pretty much, just about, dashes out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Author clasps hands together* Wow, what wonderful and encouraging feedback. Thank you for the comments and kudos! 
> 
> A couple of things 1. I whole-heartedly extend the offer for constructive criticism! If you see a grammar error here or an odd reference there, please let me know :) And, 2. Please expect updates every 1-2 days. The story is nearly finished and I know I hate an uncompleted story as much as the next reader and will try not to keep you all waiting!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's first mission!

Clint’s not sure when it happened, maybe somewhere between mission preparation and weekly supervision, and nightly one-to-ones, but he thinks he might actually, maybe like Coulson. Not like _like_. But not hate, like the others. And he definitely isn’t indifferent, like with Maria Hill. His feelings toward the senior agent with warm blue eyes are certainly positive—but the concept is so foreign to Clint that he keeps pushing it down.  Which causes him to look freaking bipolar, or borderline, or whatever.  With Coulson he’ll be open and sarcastic one minute and then shut down and be angry and pissy the next.

Nat thinks he has a crush.

When she said it, Clint shouted back that she was projecting (a term the SHEILD psychologist taught him during his weekly sessions with her—a Coulson mandate).  And anyway, Natasha is pretty transparent about her feelings toward Coulson. She more than tolerates him, actually takes some of his feedback and incorporates it into her practice and is on the road to at least _acting_ like she trusts him.  All of this is moving mountains for Natasha in three weeks.  At least it is nice to know that Clint isn’t crazy, Natasha understands in a weird sort of way why he is being so thrown by their handler.

During one of his minor freak-outs, she shushed him in Russian “He’s just better Clint, than anyone we’ve had so far. People that good can be confusing.”

Clint is definitely confused.

That first night he was so anxious. Coulson had actually listened to him during their strategy meeting and didn’t get all Dom-y at his smart-ass comments. And Clint was so fucking nervous to go see him that night. Alone. Exposed.  He shot arrows for what felt like hours and subconsciously made himself late for their meeting.  He chose to act like he meant to be late.  When Coulson asked though, Clint thought he saw the truth.

And then Coulson nearly fucking gave him a heart attack.  Telling him to strip down like that. Clint thought he was going to get right to the fucking bit—like Sitwell.  Clint was waiting for it, waiting for Phil’s hands to go lower, more suggestive, more aggressive. But they never did, they stayed clinical, firm, supportive.  Massaging out the tension that wouldn’t go away. And then they were gone. The only time Phil even so much as hinted as wanting something sexual was when Clint was in Downward Present.

To be fair, Clint thinks that every Dom, everywhere, is required to find Downward Present at least somewhat arousing. But then Coulson whispered, more to himself really, that Clint was ‘beautiful’.  And Clint blushed, he did, because no Dom has ever said that to him before—like he is something to be cherished not just something to fuck. It sounded like how someone might take in a breathtaking scenery, or a work of art, or for Clint, a perfect shot. But Phil had said that about _Clint_.  And Clint can’t deal.

Then, of course the talking.  Fucking Christ, Clint had already told the senior agent the abbreviated version of his sob story.  From his time at the circus, being beaten until he got perfect shots every time, not just most of the time.  And then later when his brother left and Clint was only 14—how lonely it felt, how unprotected.  And then at 15 when the new Ring Master found his way to Clint every night, tying him down, taking things that Clint wasn’t ready to give.  When that social worker took him away, he wasn’t at all relieved. Because the group home Dom didn’t understand him—he kept trying to use more and more force to get him into subspace but it just drove him further away from it.

He spent his entire life since puberty desperately avoiding that most vulnerable place.  He’d seen other subs go there and Clint thought it looked terrifying, loosing control like that, being controlled like that. 

Clint shudders as he thinks about it even now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want that. Even with Nat he didn’t want her to see him like that, he didn’t want her to have that power when he would never have that for her. He trusted her, with his life, but it felt so imbalanced. Natasha understands, though.  So thankfully Clint doesn’t feel guilty about it.

Clint also told Coulson about the other handlers. Not Sitwell.  But the others, and how they didn’t know why it wasn’t working and neither did Clint.

He didn’t tell Phil how shitty it feels every time another handler just throws their hands up and deems him too hard. He hates risking this opportunity for Natasha. She reassures him almost daily that she will always choose him over a job but it doesn’t make him feel any less … broken.  Clint hadn’t said it that night, but he thinks Coulson heard it loud and clear.  Because during after care, he kept muttering in Clint’s ear as he massaged his scalp _You’re so strong Clint, so resilient.  I think you’re incredible.  They shouldn’t have treated you that way, you deserve better, you deserve more. And I promise you I’ll try and be what you need.  I want to be what you need._

Coulson didn’t say anything about Clint’s wet cheeks when it was over.

Clint shakes his head twice to get all that out of his mind and continues getting dressed.  It’s mission day and he needs to be in the right headspace for Natasha. He has to be perfect in everything else aside the subspace thing because he wants this job for her, for himself too, but mostly for her.  She thrives at SHIELD and Clint won’t be the reason she doesn’t stay.

The objective of the mission is to infiltrate a gang drug swap (a large airplane hanger in the middle of the desert), grab a key drug lord (mid-level agent in pretend gear) and bring him back for “interrogation”. Once they get the information they need from him, they can clench the supplier.

It’s their first two-part mission. And the first mission where if they “die” they don’t just start again in two weeks, they drop back 4 levels and have to work their way up from there.  Clint doesn’t want to go back to the child’s play they were doing before. This stuff is way more fun. And Coulson has this unwavering faith in them.  Like they’ll just check the box and skip a few more levels. His confidence in them is unnerving sometimes.

When Clint enters the main room of their “base”, (a random ranch SHIELD built in the middle of the desert) Coulson and Nat are already there getting coffee.  It’s hot as balls, but the caffeine is necessary.  Coulson has a mug ready for him, black with two sugars, just how he likes it. Clint doesn’t remember telling Coulson that, but he isn’t surprised at this point, the man sees _everything_. 

“Alright, its not worth repeating the plans, I trust you two know them well enough.  I’ll just remind you that I’ll be in your ear the whole time and I’ll expect communication throughout the op.  Also, I want you to follow your instincts. You have the expertise to get this squared away.”

Natasha and Clint nod their acknowledgement.

“Oh, and Clint, this finally came in.” Coulson drags around his duffel bag and pulls out—holy fuck the most beautiful fucking bow Clint has ever seen. “It’s the best the Weapons Department has got.  They special ordered it with a few safety modifications—its fingerprint resistant, among other things.”

Clint’s in shock. He’s staring, he knows it, but fuck no one’s actually ever gotton him something this beautiful. And okay Coulson just ordered it from the Weapons Department, but he still remembered from Clint’s first conversation with him.

“You’ve already practiced a bunch on the training bow, but I thought you’d like the option of using it during the mission.” Coulson’s voice sounds unsure.  When Clint glances up he thinks Coulson looks a bit…nervous?

Clint hasn’t said anything yet. Shock. Natasha jabs him in the side.

“She’s beautiful.”  Clint breathes and rises to put his hands around her. “She’s, I’ve never…” His fingers stroke along her black edges, and over her dark leather grip. God, Clint bets she shoots like a dream.

“Did you want to use it for the mission?” Coulson looks pleased now.

“Fuck yeah, absolutely, I want to see what this beauty can do!”

“Good, I’m glad. You have about 8 minutes to get acquainted before its go time.”

Clint smiles because they both know he has at least 13 minutes and Clint knows somehow that Coulson will let him have the full time.

 

-0-

 

At first, the mission goes according to plan, Clint makes it to his perch easily and is quietly taking out unimportant players while Natasha tracks the lead drug pin through another building on the complex. Unfortunately, one of the agents (pretend bad guy) is a little trigger happy and before the sedative arrow that Clint shoots him with kicks in, he fires off a couple of rounds (which Clint thinks is totally unfair because in real life that was a kill shot, but whatever). The attention of the shots sends him into contingency plan B.

“Talk to me Hawkeye.”  Clint does NOT shiver, because Coulson’s ops voice is only a shade different then his Dom voice.

“Moving to contingency plan B. Target drew attention to my perch.” Clint prowls along the edge of the parameter, already hearing voices descending on the supply section.

“Acknowledged agent.  Proceed with caution, Widow is out of assistance range.”

Clint just clicks his earpiece once, because he is making a stealthy exit out the window and up the side of the building. He has to get to the top rafters of the hanger without being spotted before Natasha makes it back with the drug lord.

“Tracker planted.”  Natasha confirms over the coms.

Clint smiles at Nat’s voice, he wonders offhand if there will ever be an op where she isn’t perfectly composed. Clint hopes not.

“Agents be aware that targets are searching the parameter.  They are aware of our activity, I repeat they are aware of our activity.”

Clint grimaces.  This doesn’t mean total mission failure but it might set them back a bit. Clint hates it when things don’t go perfectly because of him, it just feels like another failure.

As if reading his thoughts (perceptive bastard), Coulson’s voice comes through their private link. “Nothing goes perfectly Hawkeye. Shake it off.”

Damn him and his mind reader ways. Clint does remind himself that his SHIELD body suit sends heart rate and respiratory readings but _God damn_ —Coulson’s been saying all the right things to Clint since their first meeting.

“We have a problem.” Clint perks up at Natasha’s muffled voice. “Target was alerted of the take outs and is attempting to cancel the meet.”

‘Fuck’ Clint whispers.

Coulson quickly responds, “Acknowledged Widow. Moving to contingency plan C. Hawkeye can you get to the other side of the complex in 90 seconds?”

Clint lifts himself over the roof and looks across to the furthest building where the target is surely packing up and trying to high tail.

“Yeah, I’ll have to make an entrance though.” By the time he makes it there he is sure to be spotted, he’ll descend, arrows blazing, with a shower of enemy bullets around him.

“Affirmative. Go ahead. Don’t get killed.”

Clint chuckles despite the situation. “If you say so.” He sets off in a dead sprint—hauling ass with the singular goal of breaching the last building before Natasha takes too much fire.

15 seconds before he makes it, he starts getting shot at, then 5 seconds before he’s in jumping range he hears Natasha come over the coms.

“I have to move on the target now before he gets in the vehicle.”

Clint shoots an arrow with his rope into the building, locks the carabineer on his harness in place, and with no hesitation and a helluv-a-lot of speed he crashes through the office window of the target. The man is likely already on his way out front, so Clint quickly locates the get-away car and gives it a few flats—he takes out two guards as well before he has to duck from return fire.

“Hawkeye, Widow needs you downstairs.”

“Got it.” Clint gruffs into the com and rolls out of the room down the stairs. 

He goes hand-to-hand with a few pretend bad guys but doesn’t pull his punches because it feels good to be up close again. He’s usually doing his part from up high.  After clearing the stairs he crouches down and picks off a few guys trying to rush into the next room, where Natasha presumably is kicking butt, taking names, and holding the drug pin hostage.

Clint clears the room, shoulders his bow, and then free climbs over a stationed plane, into the rafters where he barely gets secure before firing at the enemies surrounding Natasha. Between the two of the them, the room is clear in under 4 minutes.

Clint gives the hostage a once over—tall guy, heavy looking too.  Clint notices that he’s dressed the part (suit and alligator shoes). Clint can’t see the dude’s face because Nat already has a hood over him.

 “Remember we need him alive for interrogation.” Coulson’s voice comes out steady. Like he knew they’d handle it the whole time.

Clint and Natasha share a smile.

But before they can even consider extraction, Coulson’s voice cracks over the line again.  His speech is urgent but not panicked. “Code red. I repeat, code red, target initialized perimeter explosive. You have 3 minutes to clear the area or sustain fatal wounds.”

Code red—that means drop everything and get out. But they needed the drug pin for the next stage of the mission— _would that mean, did that mean?—fuck._

“Maybe we can—“  Clint bends down to see how heavy the hooded target is. Nope, the guy is more than half Clint’s weight—he can’t clear the permeter, even with Natasha helping him, in 3 minutes.

“We have orders Clint.”  Nat is already searching the target’s pockets.

Clint sighs.  But scans the room—noticing a briefcase discarded off in the corner, he grabs it quickly and hopes it’s useful.

“Agents get out of there.” Coulson warns.

Moving with optimal synchronicity, Clint launches another arrow attached to a line in his harness and Natasha steps to him so that they both can zip across to the adjacent building closer to the permeter.

Clint (intentionally) prematurely releases so that they can tumble (gracefully) to their feet into an all out dash. Clint makes sure he doesn’t loose his new bow or the briefcase as they run past the first marker.

“10 seconds to detonation”.  For the first time, Clint thinks he hears a sliver of nerves in Coulson’s voice.

Him and Natasha push harder—they should _just_ make it.

“3 seconds”

They dive for the final marker as the explosion hits. And Jesus Fuck SHIELD didn’t skimp on the realistic details.  The noise is nearly identical to what an explosion like that would have been, though the force and the heat don’t quite match the simulated magnitude. It still knocks them on their asses though. 

When Coulson screeches to a halt in the jeep, however many minutes later, Nat and Clint are still breathing hard, flat out on their backs.

Coulson brings them a cold canteen and while Nat takes a delicate gulp (only she could make something like that possible) Coulson lightly rests his hand on Clint’s shoulder.

“Are you two alright?”

Coulson doesn’t remove his hand even when Nat passes Clint the canteen.

They both answer Coulson with a nod, still pulling in air from their sprint.

“Sorry about the mission, Sir.” Clint pats off sand from his thighs and avoids Coulson’s eyes.

“We’ll discuss it back at base.” Clint feels his head drop a little further.  Coulson squeezes his shoulder in response. “You two did great out there.”

The three of them make their way over to the jeep and Clint elects the backseat, at least somewhat outside of Coulson’s knowing gaze. Clint goes over every aspect of the mission and knows, with certainty, that he’s the reason it went south. He ignores feeling Coulson’s eyes on him every couple of miles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Author jumps up and down* Thanks for all the love ladies and gents!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the training was REALLY about :)

Clint gnaws on his cheek the entire time he cleans himself, all while they pack up base, and during the entire ride back to headquarters. He _knows_ Coulson’s disappointed.  But what he doesn’t know is what that means for him.  He hopes Coulson doesn’t transfer him out or anything—Clint’s certain that he can’t handle another Supervising Officer. He keeps biting at his cheek nervously and ignoring Nat’s disapproving looks.

 Finally they make it to debrief.

And Coulson all of a sudden has this huge grin on his face.  Well, it’s a smirk, kind-of, like a quirk of the lips—but then if you squint its not really there. ANYWAY for Coulson it’s a God Damn toothy grin.

“Congratulations agents.”

 _What_? Clint glances at Natasha who has that look she gets when she is trying to figure out a mark’s deal with enough time to bullshit them.

Coulson’s eyes twinkle. Clint blinks—fearing he’s actually hallucinating in the middle of the desert somewhere.

Their handler continues. “You passed this level, as I assumed you would.”

“Sir—“ Clint stops himself short of saying _what the fuck_?

Coulson’s eyes narrow—“what was the objective of the mission, Barton?”

“To bring the drug lord in for interrogation—newsflash Sir—he blew up, kind of, you know if this was real, so _not_ apprehended.”

“No.” Coulson responds, cool and all-knowing. “That was not the objective.”

From his side, Clint hears Natasha release a breath that sounds like the faintest “ah.”  Clint feels out of the loop. They failed. There was a goal and they didn’t meet it—what more could there be?

Natasha touches his arm and he looks to her. “The objective was to stop the supply of illegal drugs.”

Clint searches her face for two beats and then things shift, lock, and turn slightly. _Oh_. Oh!

“No one ever extracts that drug lord.” He whispers, the full realization setting in.

“No, agent. That’s not what this level is about.” Coulson slides them each a packet of information and starts the lecture stride he gets into when he’s in debrief mode. “In that packet, is the information our hackers were able to find on the items that were retrieved from the site before detonation.  The drug lord’s briefcase held several forms of technology that allowed us to trace the cartel network and pinpoint the supplier.” Coulson pauses and puts his hands out. “Fictionally, of course.”

“You guys are mean.” Clint grumps but he’s smiling because fuck yes he didn’t fuck anything up! “That’s tricksy.”

Coulson folds his arms and shifts his weight back on his heels. “What are important take aways from this training?”

Nat speaks first—“Following orders.”

Clint rolls his eyes—she’s so _Russian_ sometimes.

Coulson agrees, “Yes, a part of this is following orders.  I told you to clear the perimeter. If you hadn’t you would have died.  What else?”

Clint adds his perspective—“Keep your head. Nat started searching for things and I was all pissed we messed up but then we found that briefcase and now we completely owned this level! We could’uv ended with nothing, you know?.” Clint ignores how annoyed Nat is with his articulation—it’s a kind of fond annoyance though.

Coulson eyes are smiling—Clint can always count on him to be sorta amused with his antics.

“Yes, Barton, another part of this level is understanding that the specifics of the mission may change, but you can still achieve a successful outcome.  We were not able to apprehend the drug lord but his briefcase did just as good a job. What else?”

Clint and Nat sort of shrug at each other and look back to Coulson.  _What else is there_?

Their silence, apparently, is very very wrong, however, because Coulson starts doing that thing where he looks up at the ceiling, presses his lips together, and repeats himself lowly.

“What else, agents?”

Clint is hoping Nat will come through on this one. Clint reviews things piece by piece and no other leanings—well, the type Phil likes to make them discuss—really jump out at him.

 _Uh-oh._ Coulson has uncrossed his arms, and is holding his hand in front of him, his pointer and thumb touching. Shit’s getting _real_.

“The point, agents, is _not_ dying.  You are worth way more to SHEILD alive than dead, and that isn’t some sweet moral delusion. We cannot replace you. We can find other ways to complete a mission, we cannot find other Hawkeyes and Black Widows. The future impact you two have on _other_ missions is priceless.” He lets that sink in, because, BOOM. “Am I clear?”

Clint gulps and nods.  _Whoops_. Guess their total lack of experience with anyone having their back, ever really shows when ‘completing the mission’ and ‘death’ are on opposing teams.

Coulson sighs and Clint feels for him. Yeah, him and Nat are a little fucked up sometimes.

“Barton, we’ll talk more in our one-to-one tonight.” I _.e. Dismissed_. “Agent Romanov, I’d like a few words.”

Clint ducks out.  Now that he’s certain he didn’t screw everything up like always, he’s fucking stoked to bring his new beauty of a bow to the range and see what she can really do. He’s used to the Doms having their chats. And Coulson always fills him in anyway.

 

-0-

 

Phil lets the silence marinate. Romanov is a woman of few words, silence and reflection go a long way with her.  Phil sits and folds his hands.

“It is important that you and Clint understand this level agent Romanov.  I don’t want you to act the way you did when you two were just a pair of unconnected, unprotected mercenaries.”

Romanov is looking out the window, an amused expression on her face. “You want me to trust SHIELD, agent Coulson?”

“I want you to _use_ SHIELD.  I want you to know that back-up is coming.” Coulson counters.  This is important. Being part of an agency is a mindset and mindsets are powerful—they inform the decisions agents make in the field.

“I take your point. But something like this takes time. We didn’t have the smoothest of introductions to your agency.” Romanov settles that heavy gaze on him.  He doesn’t flinch but he knows that others usually do.

“ _My_ agency?” Coulson cocks his head.

“Yes—Clint and I know we can depend on each other. I’m starting to think this is true about you, but SHIELD?  SHIELD has its closets and dark corners just like everywhere else.”

Phil leans back in his seat. There’s something there, in Romanav’s insinuation, he files it away and turns back to the matters at hand. “You’re right.  I don’t expect you to change your opinion of the agency overnight. And I don’t entertain fairytales that you’ll think of yourself as belonging to SHIELD  But, you two still act like independent contractors and I don’t want that to be the difference of coming back from a mission and not.”

Romanov blinks and holds Coulson’s eyes. This type of blank stare Phil has come to associate with the Widow deciding what she wants to do with information. “I understand.”

Phil breathes out.  As the Dom in the pair, Natasha can sway the direction of the team. Clint has opinions, good ones, but he’s susceptible to the example of a Dom he trusts.  The fact that Natasha’s mindset can cost Clint’s life is really what it comes down to. And, Phil has stopped denying, to himself at least, that Clint is behind a lot of his agendas with Natasha.  Phil also knows Natasha can see through these types of conversations like glass.

And, true to form, she picks up on this one as well. “Aren’t we going to talk about Clint’s reaction today?” Her eyebrow arches most patronizingly.

Phil wants to be juvenile and say no, but in most ways Natasha’s perceptiveness is superior to his own. He is grateful, he really is, that Clint has someone like the Widow in his corner.  Some days though, it just makes him jealous.

“I didn’t expect him to take the outcome the way he did.” Coulson admits. If Phil is honest, he thought the bratty sub would take a haughtier road—blaming the agents that shot rounds when he had already pierced them with an arrow, or ragging on how realistic certain time frames were, or demanding to know why he couldn’t load the drug lord in the plane and fly off before everything exploded etc.  Instead, he had internalized, _everything_. He had blamed himself, unhealthily. He looked so _guilty,_ like it was all his fault.

Romanov sighs and looks at Phil like he’s a child. “He operates under the assumption that if he is not perfect we will not keep him.”

Phil gapes, opens his mouth to speak, but realizes he’s still processing the mind blowing nugget of truth and shuts his mouth.

“We?” He finally croaks out after several moments. _Does she mean SHIELD….?_

“Yes. _We_. The people who he belongs to.” Her eyes are boring into his. He doesn’t look away.

 “He’s never been good enough.” Coulson surmises.

“No.”

“He can’t see himself clearly.” Phil knew that. The beautiful sub’s insecurities hide just under his thin veil of cockiness and arrogant swagger—revealing that much of his confidence is feigned.

Clint thinks he’s never been good enough to keep. Those people left him, abused him, hurt him because he wasn’t perfect? The thought alone heats Phil’s blood.

Romanov stands, apparently done dropping truth bombs. “He belongs to both of us now.” _Don’t fuck it up_ rings loud and clear in the air left behind the shut door.

 

-0-

 

Clint arrives to his and Phil’s one-to-one all doped up and ecstatic. His bow is _fantastic_. Plus, him and Nat get to do real trainings still and soon actual missions.

When he lays eyes on Phil, however, his easy stride falters.  Something is off and Clint has always found that it is best to assume that he did something wrong. Not wanting to completely ruin his high, he goes to his knees in front of Phil, right in the middle of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry.”

Phil’s hands brush gently (always gently) through his hair.  “For what, agent?”

“I don’t know, whatever has that look on your face.” Clint keeps his eyes down, hopeful the posture will pacify Phil and he’ll be forgiven in time to brag about all the tricks he can do with his new baby.

Phil sighs. “Get up Clint and go kneel in front of the couch, I’ll be there in a moment.”

Clint’s shoulders drop “Yes sir.” He moves to the living room and kneels patiently for Phil.  The man doesn’t sound angry, which puts Clint at ease.  But there’s a flavor of disappointment that has his gut turning. Disappointment, unlike anger, is a slower death—like a lethal poison.

Clint is debating whether he would prefer for Phil to hit him out of anger or dismiss him out of disappointment when Phil settles on the couch, two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Stop that.” He says sternly. Clint’s brows furrow and the dom elaborates “whatever has _that_ look on _your_ face.” Phil pats the seat on the couch next to him. “Come here.”

Clint obliges and takes the offered coffee cup. He tries to settle in—Phil’s cues are telling him its not that serious but his body language gives a different story entirely.

“Clint, I’m incredibly impressed with your performance today, and I do want to spend most of our session rewarding you. But, I have to make sure you understand, I mean _really_ understand, that nothing will go perfectly in a mission and every little bump isn’t your fault.”

Clint’s eyebrows srunch. “I know that.”

Phil gives him a disbelieving look.

“ I do! I mean, I know it logically. It’s just sometimes…gets away from me.” Clint sulks into his coffee mug. His ‘irrational thinking’ as Nat tells him, is something he’s working on. But he can’t just snap his fingers and make it go away.  There have been too many times over the years where people have given up on him, or left him because he didn’t perform the way they’d wanted.  It’s a hard belief to shake.

Phil squeezes his knee. “I see that you know what I’m saying.  I just—I want you to know that there are so many variables in a mission completely beyond your control. And when those variables mix together to mean that you have to get out instead of completing a mission…I have to know that you will get out, Clint.”

Phil cups his cheek so that Clint will meet his eyes. “I never want to come back from a mission without you.”

Phil sounds so earnest, so eaten up by this that Clint is embarrassed by the way his eyes water. He nods shakily.

“I didn’t like what was happening in the back seat of that jeep.” Phil’s voice is lighter now.

Clint releases a breath and settles back “I didn’t know I hadn’t fucked everything up yet!”

“Staying alive over the objective of the mission is typically not fucking anything up. You are much more important to m—SHIELD than any mission.”

“Getting made by a junior agent felt like a fuck up, sir.” Clint snarks, referring to the hanger when one of the agents fired off and revealed Clint’s position.

Phil’s eyes glimmer amusedly over his mug, “Well, that wasn’t totally fair.  It was certainly a kill shot.”

Clint’s lip twitches. “I thought so, anyway.”

Phil swallows what remains of his mug and gestures for Clint to give him his half empty one.  “I’m going to wash these, in the meantime I want you to think of a reward that you want.”

Clint smiles gleefully—his high returning, albeit, more modest than before.  _What to ask for?_ He typically rotates between a massage (having Phil’s hands on him), asking that Phil watch him on range while he shows off fancy stunts (having Phil praise him), or sleeping on Phil’s couch (having Phil’s smell around him when he falls asleep).

But tonight he’s itching for more, and he isn’t quite sure what.

By the time Phil gets back, Clint thinks that maybe he’ll just ask Phil to take him to the range but then Phil returns with his glasses on and a soft sweater, and…were those sweatpants? And suddenly Clint wants something intimate.  Phil begins to speak and Clint focuses entirely on the movement of his lips. He wonders what those taste like.  Will they have a bitter flavor of the coffee Phil just drank. Clint bets they would taste good, in any case.

Clint’s so fucking distracted by Phil’s mouth. He misses exactly what Phil has asked. Its about something that Clint wants? A reward….”I want a kiss.”

There’s silence and it jostles Clint from his reverie.

“You want me to kiss you Clint, for your reward?” Phil’s eyes get all warm and silky. Clint fucking eats that shit right up

Clint’s throat goes dry. “Yes.”

Phil wets his lips and leans in—voice gentle. “You did so well today, Clint.  You gave me your best and that’s all I can ask for. I’m so proud of you.” And Phil is securing his lips over Clint’s, his hand moves to fan out over Clint’s jaw, then drops lower so that his thumb is resting in the dip of his throat.

Clint moans.  He knew it, Phil tastes so _good_. Clint feels warm and tingly all over.

Phil pulls back, with just a hint of color on his cheekbones. “Thank you.” He whispers against Clint’s lips. “For giving that to me.”

Clint blinks. His mind is still whirling from the kiss, he can’t really form the words to ask questions.  Phil gave that to Clint, not the other way around. But Phil’s gratitude sounds like praise so Clint will drink it down unquestionably.

Phil makes like he might pull away and Clint whines, vexed. 

Phil chuckles so sweetly, “Greedy sub.”

But he pulls Clint back toward him and _kisses_ Clint—his tongue works his way inside Clint’s mouth and stakes its claim, thoroughly exploring its domain.

Clint falls into it, a delighted whimper catches in his throat. 

Phil’s hand is secure against his throat and his mouth is _plundering_ Clint’s but it feels good, safe, and not at all a violation.  Clint wishes he had asked for this sooner.  Screw those massages.

When they break apart panting, Phil is full on smiling—his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “You’re so beautiful.” He tells Clint seriously.

Clint blushes and looks down. But he’s smiling to himself too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all wonderful! You make me so excited to post! As always, please let me know of any little errors you see ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That time Fury is a meddling meddler who meddles -_-

Phil walks the hallway to Fury’s office with a pep in his step. Phil might even be almost smirking.  The junior agents are so frightened by the anomaly they scatter like mice with just one look at him. Apparently he’s scaring them quite a bit as Audrey already called once from medical asking about Phil’s mental health—saying the junior agents are on high alert.

Phil only chuckled.  Because even at this 4 month mark, things with his two “problem” projects are going splendidly.  Romanov is ever impressive—each time Phil thinks he might have seen the ceiling of her potential she shifts and turns and suddenly there is a whole other depth.

And then there is Clint. Clint, who has been a roller-coaster of an experience for Phil as a Dom.  The sub certainly has landmines that Phil is still uncovering and occasionally stepping directly on.  But Phil has had some incredible wins—Clint asking for the physical touch of a kiss as a reward for one.  By and large, Clint _wants_ to be a good sub and he typically does his best to accomplish that.  Most importantly, Clint has not spiraled into a psychotic break down.

 In fact, Clint has thrived at SHIELD. His archery record is nearly unbeatable at this point and his performance across all measures (minus improvable items like reading) are exceptional.  Phil thinks the pair will be more than ready to take on real missions by the 6 month mark Fury and he originally aimed for.

While Clint has not yet been put down into subspace (and may be months away from it yet)—he has shown high levels of stability. Clint hasn’t opened the path for Phil to take things between them into any sexual realm or into anything much more intense than a time-out, with-holding rewards, or kissing. But, Phil is beginning to believe that Clint will get to subspace when he’s good and ready and Phil doesn’t like the idea of people doubting the archer’s capacity in the field for something like that.

By the time Phil gets to Fury’s office, every junior agent has fled the corridors.

“Coulson, come in.”  Fury beckons him to sit while he puts away a file Phil’s not sure even he has clearance on. “What’s the status on your misfit toys?”

Phil’s lips quirk.  He knows Fury has read his report. “They’re doing well. I think they will be mission-worthy in the next couple of months.”

Fury pulls his face. “You’d clear Barton for the field in the next couple of months?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Fury’s eye turns mischievous and Phil knows enough to know he should be weary. “I agree with your assessment with one caveat.”

Phil raises an eyebrow for the director to continue.

“It seems that you as Romanov and Barton’s handler has made a significant impact on their performance.”

“I hope so.”

“I believe so. However, I’m curious what happens when you’re taken away and they’re separated—which is a plausible scenario in the field and within the agency.”  Fury sits back. He knows he doesn’t have to spell it out.

Phil sighs and stares blankly at Fury. The man has a point. And if Phil was assessing any other handler or superior officer he would ask the same question and demand the same test that Fury is surely suggesting.

“What’s my mission, then.”  Phil gives Fury a pointed look not to B.S. him and holds out his hand.  He knows Fury’s ways and Fury knows that he knows.

Fury chuckles and hands over a file, not the classified one. “It should be a milk-run, two days, maybe 3 tops. Wouldn’t want you getting all over-protective Dom being gone so long from your boy.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “What are your plans for Romanov and Barton?”

Fury shrugs. “I just want to see what happens, mostly for Barton, when the routine is interrupted and you aren’t a resource any more.  I might take them through a training session, but I’ll probably just leave them to their own devices.”

“When do I leave?”

“2 hours.”

Phil nods once, stiffly, his mood completely soured. He hasn’t prepped Clint at all, of course Fury knows this. Phil stands, he doesn’t care that he’s letting his friend see all his tells. “Don’t take this little experiment too far, Nick. Barton doesn’t deserve that.”

Fury smiles wickedly. “Well God damn, Cheese, when are you signing the collaring paperwork? You’re gone for the kid and after 4 months!”

“I’ll see you in a few days, Fury.” Phils says through his teeth—because telling Nick to _fuck off_ and sticking out his tongue would give the man too much pleasure.

Phil can hear Nick’s cackling long after he shuts (forcefully closes) the director’s office door.

 

-O-

 

Clint startles at the sight of Coulson marching toward him at the range.  He would think he was in trouble, if Phil’s eyes weren’t so unmistakably concerned. The other agents interpret a different message—they scatter to the wind before Phil has to even lift an eyebrow. A few months ago, Clint might have wanted to scatter too but now he can read his handler and he knows at the very least the man isn’t angry with _him_.

“Barton.” Coulson says, all grave like someone died. “I have news.”

Coulson secures his hand on the back of Clint’s neck—something Clint has become unerringly comfortable with and something that if anyone else were to do would trigger Clint’s fight or flight response.

Clint intentionally breathes out (another thing he’s learned from Coulson) and sets down his bow. “What’s up boss? You look like your grandmother just died or something. Er, unless she actually did, in which case, fuck I’m sorry I’m an insensitive asshole.” He hangs his head.

Coulson’s lips don’t even twitch and Clint knows he’s not gonna like what he hears.

“Fury is sending me on a solo mission. I leave within the hour.”

Clint blinks, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Coulson gives his neck a squeeze. “He’s testing you. He wants to know that you will stay as stable as you have been when I’m not around.  The mission should only take two days, three at the most.”

Clint releases a shuddering breath. “Fuck Coulson, that’s it? Jesus, I thought you were transferring me out.”

“No, Clint, God no. It’s another test. And like all the others, I know you’ll more than pass.”  Coulson does smile then and settles his hand reassuringly around Clint’s neck, his thumb resting securely in the dip of his throat.

“I can handle three days without you sir, shit.” But even as Clint finishes his sentence he realizes he’s not actually sure.

Phil palms Clint’s cheek. “I’ll be back by Thursday night. I want you in my apartment at 8pm for a one-to-one. Until then, I expect you to practice your paces every night.”

Clint nods, he’s having feelings, but they seem slightly too overwhelming to process in the moment.

“Also.”  Phil pulls out a stainless steel metal ring.  He activates an internal lever and the slender ring unlocks. Phil pulls Clint’s wrist to him and begins securing the ring—bracelet really.  Clint wonders when he began trusting Coulson to the point that he doesn’t even twitch when the man cuffs him with an unknown object. “This is a safety precaution.  If your levels get concerning it will alert medical and myself and Natasha. And if you safeword, it will alert myself and Natasha and internal enforcement.”

Phil had only recently introduced the stoplight system into their one-to-ones, mostly because of this one time that Clint was being punished and just really couldn’t handle Phil withholding things from him at that particular moment (i.e. touching) and kinda sorta basically had a tantrum. Clint regards the bracelet and realizes that this is Phil’s way of keeping him protected while he’s gone. Then he sees how concerned Phil looks, Clint thinks that maybe it is for Phil’s benefit as much as his own.

“Thank you.”

Coulson rubs at Clint's wrist for a few moments. “I’ve already informed agent Romanov of everything. You might go on a training mission with Fury but you’ll likely be on your own.”

“Okay.” Clint tries for a reassuring smile but isn’t sure if it comes out properly.

Phil tilts Clint’s jaw, and just looks at him for several long moments.  Finally, he places a hard kiss on his lips. “Be safe, Clint. I’ll see you at 8pm on Thursday.”

Clint doesn’t watch Phil walk away because he’s never been good at that.

 

-O-

 

Clint spends the rest of the day convinced he’ll hyperventilate, but doesn’t.  Then, while crawling in the airducts above Phil’s office, he realizes he really isn’t going to. He’s fine.  Phil will be back, he practically cuffed him, and he gave Clint a time and day to see him next.  If Clint has learned anything about Coulson in the past four months, its that the man thinks punctuality is a matter of ethics or virtue or whatever. If there was a God of punctuality, Coulson would pray to him everyone morning, surely.

Clint sighs and flips over on his back. He understands this for what it is.  Fury scheduled Nat for a serious of top secret tests through the evening and into Wednesday morning. Clint gets it, _let’s stress that weird sub out and see if he cracks like we think he will_. Ha, joke's on SHIELD—Clint’s lived through a hellava lot more stress than a handler taking a mission.  Clint actually laughs—he would like to punk the SHIELD psychologists but knows Coulson would disapprove.

Clint does his paces that night as he was told and doesn’t have any trouble falling asleep.

Clint makes it through Wednesday and then most of Thursday.

He’s in the airducts again, late Thursday afternoon, and he’s definitely not panicking.  He calls Nat, though, which means he probably is panicking, a little.

Nat doesn’t miss a beat, “He’s not back yet.”

Clint looks down sourly at Phil’s very empty office.

“No.” He croaks because Phil _said_ he’d be back, an appointment is basically a promise to their handler and their handler has never broken a promise.

Nat sighs, all motherly and dominant. _Just not the right kind_. “Come over.”

Clint grimaces, he doesn’t think seeing Nat will make the feeling go away, he’s surprised to think that it might even make it worse. Besides, despite all facts pointing to Coulson not showing up—Clint feels compelled to be at his apartment. He’s fairly certain he’s a masochist.

“I can’t.  I should be there, just in case.”

Nat hums. “It’s only 5. Are you going now?”

Clint shrugs, “Yeah.”

“Alright. But come back here if he doesn’t show. And don’t do anything stupid.” She waits for his sound of assent and clicks off.

He never wants to see Nat’s version of aftercare. Is it a pat on the head, hope you feel better? Clint would be outright shocked if it is anything more than that. The woman is brisk as hell.

Clint’s shaking his head fondly as he drops down from the ducts.  But as soon as his feet land he knows he’s made a mistake, the telltale steps round the corner before he has a moment to flee.

“Ah. Barton.” Clint refuses to shudder at Sitwell’s slimy voice.

“I’m on my way to meet Coulson.” Clint shifts his bow on his shoulder—hopeful that the threat of his current dom would be enough to deter this one.  He knows it wont, they’re never deterred.

“That might be difficult seeing as he hasn’t checked in since yesterday—Fury’s fixing a rescue mission.” Sitwell is looking all smug and nasty.  Clint wants to punch him.

“Well, either way I’m headed to his place. Those were my orders.” It sounds lame to Clint’s own ears.

“Poor sub.  Missing his dom.” Sitwell taunts. “I wonder what the secret is. He seems to be able to manage you.  I honestly didn’t think Coulson had it in him as dom to bring a sub like you to heel.” He’s circling Clint now and Clint’s feeling that familiar paralysis that comes with knowing he is royally fucked anyway he slices it. 

He can’t hurt Sitwell like he wants—he’s a superior officer and a Dom, even internal enforcement has their biases. Clint wonders if the cameras in the halls are real.  Before he has time to get too far into his escape strategy he hears Maria Hill’s voice down the hall, his heart leaps.

But Sitwell moves quickly, jabbing him in the throat and hustling him into his office a few doors down. Clint remembers darkly that Sitwell is no pencil pusher—he’s held a few records at SHEILD too.

Clint’s eyes are watering and he’s sucking in air and then coughing out air and doubled over the edge of the desk. _Fucking asshole_ —that was such a punk shot.

Sitwell enables a classified setting in the room and Clint’s fists clench because he knows the office is now soundproofed.

“While you were the most ungrateful, insubordinate sub I’ve ever had to handle, I will say Barton, I’ve missed this ass.” Sitwell takes two palmfuls of Clint’s asscheeks.

Clint heaves, body vibrating with fear and anger. It’s happening again, how could he think it wouldn’t?  Fucking Coulson.  Everyone fails him at some point, everyone, _everyone_.

 _Fuck that_. He looks down at his hands, he’s so ready to beat Sitwell bloody and take the guilt when they pack Nat’s bag and the remorse when he’s stuck in a SHIELD cell until god knows when.  He tenses his muscles, but the glint of silver on his wrist catches his eye.

“Red.” He rasps, and builds up air in his windpipe louder and louder “Red! Red! Red!” The bracelet’s light turns red and somewhere from the middle of bumfuck inside him he knows he’s getting out of this. Coulson put that bracelet on him and Coulson is anything if not thorough.

Sitwell, hands already fumbling with Clint’s training suit, stops and starts belly laughing, an evil, toxic sound.

“Oh darling. I’m not your dom anymore, I don’t know your safeword.”

Clint doesn’t really register the words. His mind is throwing up walls and gauze, and padding.  He’s done this dance before, he knows how to go far away until it’s over.  He focuses on the timeline and his breath.  How long until internal enforcement read his location, until Nat comes for him, and medical, and maybe even Phil?  Distantly, he hears Sitwell pulling up his shirt from his suit pants and he boroughs deeper into his cocoon—he can barely feel the Dom’s grubby hands on his back, his disgusting hard-on pressed through the fabric of his dress pants into the crack of his ass.

One breath. Release. Two breaths. release.

In some part of his brain he registers that Sitwell has a grip on his hair and is saying something into his ear. Something terrible, certainly, but he can’t hear him.  Clint’s eyes are unfocused—Sitwell is on the fringes of his consciousness.

One breath. Release. Two breaths. Release.

Only the bright light of the hallway reaches him. He thinks he hears Nat cursing but he’s faraway now.  He knows he can’t come back for a good little while.  He tried that once, coming up too soon.  It was back when it was the ring master crouching over him. It made him dizzy and sick for half the day.  Better to wait it out.  Nat’s here and maybe others.  He’ll be fine. He’s wrapped up good, he’ll come ‘round when he’s ready.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *author covers face with hands* Hey all! Sorry to leave you so long without an update and on a mini-cliffhanger! RL has been kicking my butt and I didn't realize how much needed to be filled in between the scenes/chapters I had already written. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR BEING WONDERFUL READERS! I will try and respond to feedback soon, I saw some good items in the comments that I want to address :) :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil returns from his mission and Sitwell gets dealt with...

Phil is trying very hard not to be irritated by the bloodstain on one of his favorite suits.  He’s on his drive back to SHIELD, _Back to Clint_ , and the 40 minutes left in his journey is growing unbearable. The milk-run had turned into a total clusterfuck, leaving him driving 80 mph on some back roads to New York in a hijacked car with fucking _blood_ on his suit.  He wants to cut Fury into tiny little pieces.

He also accepts, for the first time, that being away from Clint was definitely _not_ a milk-run.

Phil had not anticipated that “the twitches” (as Maria Hill fondly dubs her own Dom withdrawals) would come just a mere day from being away from his sub.  He had gone months with other subs.  Yet, a few days away from Clint and he’s acting like they’re newly collared.  Phil’s annoyed with himself, and Fury, and _all_ of fucking Texas.

He’s calculating the quickest way to check-in with Fury and get cleaned up before his one-to-one when his ring notifies him that Clint has activated the safeword feature on his bracelet.

Phil’s heart stops.  Then restarts at double time.

If only because he is Phil fucking Coulson, he doesn’t freak out.  There are protocol in place for this.  There are protocol for the protocol and back up protocol.  Natasha is around and even Fury is on the notification list. As well as Maria. His ring tells him that while Clint’s levels are somewhat concerning, he is very much _alive_. And the safeword could mean a number of things.

Only a lifetime later (but maybe more like 12 minutes) he gets a call in from Fury on his only-in-case-of-serious-fucking-shit-number.

He’s speaking before Phil has a chance to embarrass himself. “He’s fine.  He’s in medical. Its complicated.  Meet us down here when you get here. But he’s okay cheese, I swear.”

He clicks off, not being able to be on the line for more than 15 seconds.

Phil straight up growls, pressing his foot to the gas and turning the remaining 40 minutes into 30.

 

\--

 

When Phil arrives on base he is immediately escorted to Medical by internal enforcement.  His mind is racing through every single scenario—did Clint actually have that supposed break-down after all? Did Fury push him too hard during a training mission? Did he think that Phil was secretly on base observing him and just had enough?

He’s barely clinging to control when Medical’s doors slide open.  A sweet nurse takes two steps toward him with a med-kit in hand before she process his glare and scurries away.

“Phil.” Fury steps out from a private room, set with high confidentiality settings, and ushers him. 

Phil feels so brittle he might snap. A part of him, a large part, wants to be taken to Clint directly, to put his hands on him and assure himself that his sub is whole.  But the rational part of him knows that he needs the facts, he needs to be the best version of himself for Clint, and he wont know what that version is until he knows what this whole thing is about.

Fury only takes a few seconds to assess that the blood all over Phil is mostly not his and then he starts explaining in a gush of breath. “Clint was nearly raped by Agent Jasper Sitwell approximately 56 minutes ago. He safeworded and internal enforcement was alerted.  Romanov turned up on the scene as well as Maria Hill who was in the vicinity. His bracelet transmitted a sound recording of the incident.”

Phil’s jaw is clenched so tightly he won’t be surprised if he cracks a tooth.  How _dare_ another Dom even _look_ at his sub in that manner. How dare anyone hurt someone that _belongs_ to Phil, someone under _his_ protection. And Sitwell—Phil should have fucking _known_. Times of him and Clint passing Sitwell in the hall flash before his eyes, the way Clint hunched and moved closer to Phil and Natasha’s ominous words after the drug-lord mission scenario— _SHIELD has its closets and dark corners just like everywhere else_.

Fury presses on. “We will handle Sitwell. You know we will. The reason we’re talking here is because Clint has slipped into a dissociative state.  Romanov will only speak to you.  And Audrey believed it was best to wait for you before trying any interventions.”

Phil blinks and tries to focus his mind. He’s seeing everything in red.

Fury squeezes his shoulder. “Clint needs you now. We _will_ handle Sitwell.”

Phil gets up and follows Fury to an observation room. His heart pounds in his chest at the sight of Clint behind a one-way mirror.  His sub is dazed and faraway—his eyes so _empty_. A few nurses mill about, checking vitals, reflexes, offering him food items—he’s completely unresponsive to anything.  Phil feels like he can’t take a full breath.

Before he can barge in and do something ridiculous, Audrey and Natasha join him and Fury steps out on a call.

Audrey speaks first, ever the professional psychiatrist.  “He’s been in this state since we found him.  I’ve seen dissociative episodes before and I’ve found its best to let them run their course and if possible, slowly bring individuals back with standard after-care procedure.”

Phil’s eyebrows furrow at Audrey’s use of after-care in this context.  He knows exactly what she means of course—warm blankets, sugar, gentle touch but something….

Suddenly it clicks. The pieces fall into place so abruptly that it startles a dark laugh from Phil.  He gets it now and he shakes his head at how obvious it was this entire time.

Audrey and Natasha look at him like he’s grown one thousand heads.

Phil turns to Romanov—“Have you seen these episodes before?” There must be something manic in his tone—a panicked urgency because she only takes one brief side glance at Audrey before answering.

“Yes. Once before, with Sitwell. That was the time that I approached Fury about a transfer.  He had been hiding the abuse from me.” She breathes in and out. “he has also told me that he has experienced this in the past.  When he was younger.”  _When he was being raped by the ring master._

Phil wants to break the glass. He wants find Sitwell and make him scream and cry and beg.  He wants _Sitwell’s_ blood on his suit, he wants the smatter on the edge of his gun when Sitwell’s head cracks backward from being pistol whipped.

Phil looks at Audrey and can’t do anything about how cold his tone sounds. “This is why he’s so functional without being put down to subspace.  He’s been able to find a detached place that is safe within himself.” The difference being that Clint has always been escaping a Dom’s presence when he enters into this altered state.  His sub had, incredibly (as Clint always is) built an internal version of subspace. Not the same at all, but serving a similar function of letting go and escaping. Phil remembers a word that Maria had used in her description of Clint. Adaptive.

Audrey hums to herself and Natasha lifts her chin, eyes processing.

Phil knows he should go to Clint, a part of him craves it.  But he can’t. He turns to Natasha—“I need to see Sitwell.”

Natasha nods like she understands, like she _really_ understands. He can’t see Clint like this—with the desire for blood on his tongue, with hate and anger in his eyes.

He leaves Audrey reflecting alone, and follows Natasha to a locked down observation room—similar to the one Clint is in, except flanked by internal enforcement and with confinement settings turned to their highest security level.

When Sitwell comes into view through the one-way mirror, Phil actually stops short, his head whipping to look at Romanov.

Sitwell looks terrible.  His eye is swollen to the size of a golf ball, his nose looks like it has been broken, part of his ear is missing, and his right arm is held awkwardly in a sling.  There is blood all over him.  He looks clammy and clearly is having difficulty breathing. His neck is in a brace and a SHIELD doctor is prepping a sonogram—likely to assess for internal bleeding.

Natasha doesn’t look at Phil, her eyes stay honed on Sitwell—a darkness that Phil felt just moments before written clearly in every line of her body.

_He belongs to both of us now._

 Phil is still considering entering the room, getting his own piece of justice, when Sitwell jostles, hissing in pain.  There, underneath his collar, Phil catches a glimpse of four thin lines, a deep purple bruising already settling around them.  Phil has seen those marks before.  He’d memorized the photos.  The infamous widow’s bite—usually hidden amongst its victim’s other injuries, the poison, when administered in smaller doses, mimics the symptoms of cardiac arrest several days after exposure.  Without the antidote the victim will die, painfully.

Phil and Natasha lock eyes.

Phil wants to be the man with irreproachable ethics, the man his file certainly reflects, the man he expects of himself. But instead of being horrified, of facing an internal moral conflict, of immediately alerting Fury and demanding the antidote from Natasha—he says, simply “Good work, agent.”

They share a vicious smile, a smile only two Doms responsible for the same sub would understand.

_He belongs to both of us now._

And while Phil knows there are times when he will always be a little jealous of Natasha, he is at once very grateful that they have this understanding.  No one hurts something that belongs to them. No one.

“Take him home, Phil.” She says softly, earnestly, and turns back to watch Sitwell. 

There, watching the twisted peace on Natasha’s face as she looks through the glass, Phil gets the difference. Phil needs to hold Clint, to watch light flicker back in his eyes, feel his steady pulse under his hands. Natasha needs to watch Sitwell die.

 

\--

 

Clint’s first conscious realization is that he is being held.  Shortly after that he processes the calming tilts of Phil’s aftercare voice, his aftercare touches.

“You’re so strong Clint, so brave. ”

Clint shivers, and turns his head.

“There you are.”  Phil sighs, looking relieved, and cups his jaw, his thumb stroking along his bottom lip. “Color?”

Its Phil so….”green.”  His voice sounds odd to his own ears.

But that must be the right answer because Phil starts kissing him gently—moving his lips firms along Clint’s but holding him like he’s a fragile thing.  Clint sighs into Phil’s mouth and has a fleeting thought that he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to be kissed by another Dom the way he always wants to be kissed by Phil.

When they pull apart, Phil doesn’t look so worried. “Later, maybe much later, we’re going to have a talk about today.” Clint twists his face but Phil holds up his hand and continues. “But right now I need to take care of you.  Even if you don’t think you need it, _I_ need to give it to you.” 

Clint nods.  He’s still kind of sluggish and groggy, and is not willing to even feign not wanting Phil right now.

Only when Phil pulls away and says, “You need to eat.” does Clint fully process that he is in Phil’s apartment, on his couch, in clothes from Medical. 

He also realizes that Phil is covered in blood.

“Jesus, Sir, what happened?”  He knows his voice is still heavy and disoriented.

Phil tracks his gaze and answers nonchalantly. “The mission went sideways. But I’m fine.  It just threw off my timeline.”

“And ruined one of your favorite suits.” The thing is truly unsavagable.

Phil nearly smiles, his eyes warming briefly. “I have others. Come sit at the table, I ordered your favorite.”

Clint suddenly smells spicy pad thai and everything else fades to the background.

Phil mills about the kitchen, refilling Clint’s water glass, and unloading the dishwasher, and offering him other appetizers from the take-out bag.  Every so often he runs his fingers through Clint’s hair and kisses the top of his head. Sometimes, he prompts Clint to keep eating when he’s staring off into space.

By the time Clint is full, he also is more like himself.  Phil sits across from him and pulls Clint’s hand into his.

“Clint—I’m—“ Phil falters uncharacteristically. “I’m sorry, that this has happened.  I feel that I’ve failed you.”

“No!” Clint interrupts “No, sir, you couldn’t have known this would happen. Sitwell, I, I never told you about him. ”

“I should have read between the lines. I knew there was more you weren’t telling me about him, I should have pushed.”  Phil runs his thumb over Clint’s knuckles, his expression shuttered.

Clint’s shoulders sag with guilt. He had wanted to tell Phil. Some nights it almost came tumbling out of him before he had enough time to clamp his lips together. But he was so scared. He didn’t ever want to see disbelief in Phil’s eyes.  He didn’t want Phil to leave him. Or worse, fail him.

“I should have trusted you.” Clint whispers. “I should have known you would have taken care of it.”

Phil shakes his head, “Well, Natasha took care of this one.  And very well, I might add.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

Phil’s eyes tighten as he stands. “I’ll tell you everything in the morning.  I’m sure there are some time gaps in your memory that you might want filled in.” Phil’s hand clenches on the back of his chair.  “I should also tell you that there is audio of the incident, transmitted from your bracelet.  If you ever feel it is important and constructive, I can make it available to you.”

Clint’s already shaking his head. If he could, he would never hear Sitwell’s voice again.  Maybe with the audio he won’t have to go through a deposition and explain everything that happened between them.  He hopes SHIELD puts him somewhere far away so that Clint never has to cross paths with him again.

Phil moves to stand next to Clint’s chair, his hand tilting Clint’s head back and then slipping to stroke over what is surely his bruised throat.

“I don’t want you sleeping alone tonight.” Phil makes good eye contact. “You have a few options. You can sleep with Natasha, you can sleep on my couch, or you can lay down with me in my bed—only sleeping. If you really feel that sleeping alone is import—“

“No! I want to sleep with you. I mean, er, in your bed, with you, tonight.” God, Clint wants that. The thought of returning to his single bunk or even slinking into Natasha’s bed rattles him more than he wants to analyze at the moment.  

Phil genuinely smiles for the first time since Clint came out of it. “Good.”

Phil says he wants to finish cleaning up and orders Clint to brush his teeth and use the bathroom.  Clint decides he wants to take a shower and Phil says that of course he can.  Clint scrubs himself clean until his skin is wrinkling and raw.  When he emerges from the bathroom, he sees that Phil has laid out a pair of clean sweatpants for him, Phil’s sweatpants.  The sight for some unknown reason, sends butterflies through Clint’s stomach.

When Clint wanders out of the bedroom, Phil hands him the remote and tells him to watch whatever he wants while he cleans himself off.  Clint apologizes for showering first, seeing all the blood caked on the Dom.  But Phil shushes him and tells him that he’s had dried blood on him for a lot longer than this.

A short time later Phil calls him back to the bedroom.

“I would prefer to sleep closest to the door.” Phil explains patiently, “Would that make you uncomfortable?”

Clint thinks maybe if Phil were someone else, he wouldn’t like the exit blocked.  But now, with Phil, the thought doesn’t bother him.  Phil is pleased and pulls down the covers—shooing Clint between them.

"Do you sleep on your back, side or stomach?" Phil's just slipping into the bed and Clint is distracted by the weight of his body next to his own. "Clint?"

"mmm.” Clint looks up dopily. "Um stomach."  He always found it was easier to feign sleeping that way and he could lay with one hand around his knife under his pillow.

Phil lays out on his back, and pulls Clint half atop him, humming encouragingly when Clint hikes his leg over Phil's lower half. Phil wraps his arm around him and tilts his chin up with the other. Clint falls into the kiss easily. They move their lips together lazily until Clint isn’t sure if minutes or hours have passed.

Phil reaches to the nightstand and clicks off the lamp.

In the darkness, Phil rubs Clint’s back and Clint feels his breathe even out.  Before he completely goes to sleep, he thinks he hears Phil murmuring something to him.

_You belong to me._

Clint likes the way that sounds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many of you predicted--Natasha is a merciless, ass-kicking woman and Sitwell never stood a chance! Thank you for the feedback and reviews :) As always, any grammar or other constructive criticisms are VERY welcome. 
> 
> XOXO


	7. Chapter7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has hit his limit--Phil's just too hot in those suits!

Clint’s dying. 8 months without any sex is killing his focus.  Particularly because his handler is an incredibly hot, incredibly competent agent of SHIELD—such a turn on. Clint wonders if his level of damagedness (yes, he’s making that a word), has deterred Coulson from entertaining that possibility.  The shit with Sitwell, Clint shudders involuntary, certainly left little to the imagination. Coulson knows Clint was… forced—and Clint can’t help but feel like Coulson might never want him because of it.

 

Shortly after falling asleep in Coulson’s arms that night after Sitwell, Clint began to feel the stirs of arousal at random moments with his handler.  But one night, in particular, Clint had arrived early for their one-to-one and found Phil typing rapidly on the couch.  Not wanting to disturb his progress, and knowing he was early, Clint simply knelt at Phil’s feet and waited.  Phil’s hand stroked once through his hair, acknowledging him and then, softly, almost unintentionally, Phil had said _good boy_. And Clint was astonished to realize that he was half hard.

 

But Clint has tried _everything,_ with no success.  He’s tried giving him puppy eyes.  He’s tried stripping down in the hotel room they all shared during their last three missions. Natasha keeps telling him that she doesn’t want to see anymore of his bare ass.  Clint even tried flirting with a mark’s security detail during one mission—Coulson got a little clipped over the comms but made no move for something sexual between them.

 

Clint wonders if his forced poster-child-ness (he’s making that a word too) for safe and consensual Dom/sub relationships within SHIELD is a turn-off for Phil.  Everyone in SHIELD basically knows he’s the reason for what happened to Sitwell, and the catalyst for a full out file review of every sub Sitwell ever encountered. There are new forms now, and different chains of command, and even an anonymous tip line to internal enforcement for reports of Dom/sub sexual abuse.

 

Phil keeps telling him he doesn’t have to participate. But when the lime-light’s already on you—mine as well dance. Clint hopes the hype blows over soon. Though, Melinda May and Maria Hill approached him about a committee idea just a few days ago.  As a sub and a high ranking agent, May seems really passionate. And Clint cares, he does—but he also has the hots for his Dom and is convinced his extracurricular activities are turning the man off.

 

Clint’s sexual frustration and feelings of worthlessness brew together in a perfect storm and are unleashed in the most random and inappropriate moment. Clint thinks Audrey would say it was all very Freudian.

 

Coulson had asked him about his level of comfort with undercover work, and the different shades of it—infiltration, posing, seduction… and then.

 

“Are you not sleeping with me because of Sitwell?”

 

Coulson’s flashes of emotions are surprisingly close to the surface. He’s first taken aback, then suspicious, confused then…then he catches up with himself and slips on that confident Dom mask.

 

“Why do you think that?” he finally responds.

 

“Because we haven’t had sex yet.” Clint answers honestly.

 

“You never indicated that you wanted that.”

 

“Can I indicate that now?”

 

Coulson’s lip twitches. “Why do you want to have sex with me, Barton?”

 

Why? Clint’s sure his expression is incredulous. “Because I’m horny, I can’t focus like this with you prancing around in your suits and your contingency plans—its very distracting.” He’s whining, he knows it. “And its not fair that the only Dominant I actually care about _and_ want to sleep with thinks I’m damaged goods.” Clint let’s his head drop. He’s realizing this is too much information, it makes him too vulnerable. He wants to slink out of the room and safely jack himself off in his quarters and forget that these words ever left his stupid fucking mouth.

 

But then Coulson is in front of him, one hand firmly holding his chin.  Those blue eyes are lit with anger, and possession, and….lust? Could it be? “You. Are. Not. Damaged. Goods. Understood, agent?”

 

Clint’s words are breathy, “Understood, sir.”

 

“Now, when you need to be taken care of by your Dom, you don’t interrupt a supervision meeting, and you don’t brood about it, and you don’t come up with irrational reasons why your Dom wont do what you want. You approach your Dom in a one-to-one and you ask for what you want.”

 

Clint nods absently, trying to hone his focus to Coulson’s words and not his proximity, or his smell, or his Dominance.

 

Coulson continues in a softer voice, “Now, ask for what you want, Clint.”

  
“I want you to fuck me.” Clint bites back a repulsive whimper.  Coulson heard it anyway—attentive fucker.

 

“How?”

 

How? Clint presses his lips together. “However you want, sir.” He doesn’t much care, actually. He trusts Coulson to make it good for him. Funny how Clint trusts him almost as much as Natasha in only 8 months.  It took Clint 2 years to finally believe himself when he said he was keeping a knife under the pillow for potential _outside_ threats and not also from Natasha. But she’s harder to read than Coulson. Keeps more secrets.

 

Coulson hums. “I see.  If you can get through the rest of this supervision, we can dedicate our entire one-to-one tonight to taking care of you. But I want you to focus now Barton, understood.”

 

“Yes sir.” Clint sighs, this reward system is familiar, freeing.  He can focus now because he’s doing it to earn something he desperately, desperately wants. And because if he doesn’t his Dom will be disappointed. 

“Good.  Now, espionage…” Phil launches back in like the conversation never happened. Clint has to clench his hands into a fist because he’s not sure if he just daydreamed that interaction.

 

\--O--

 

  
Phil flexes his hands in anticipation. Fuck, Barton wants him to meet his sexual needs.  And Christ, Phil has been fantasizing about that request for months.  He hadn’t expected his agent to just blurt it out—but then he had noticed the beautiful archer slipping in focus, dazing off, and looking at Phil with those pleading eyes.  He’s already half hard just thinking about it.

 

He has to center.  Clint is still skittish about things, even with Phil. He’ll have to be attuned to his asset’s every reaction.  He thinks over the boundaries/kink list that Phil forced Clint to file and keep updated with internal enforcement and he believes he has a pretty good idea about what will work for Clint.

 

Clint finally knocks and enters the room. He’s twitchy, Phil notices instantly. Nervous for something he wants, needs, really. Phil thinks he feels vulnerable.

 

“Tonight we’re going to start by you taking me through your paces.”

 

Clint’s shoulders drop some tension with a sigh, Phil had picked this because it’s familiar.

 

Phil adds the last part. “You’ll be fully nude as you do them.”

 

Clint’s eyes snap to Phil’s—surprise, excitement and nerves swirling there.  Even still, he strips efficiently out of his jacket, his shirt, jeans, shoes, socks. He takes a breath before removing his black boxer briefs.

 

Phil draws in a nice deep breath. God damn, Clint’s a beauty. Strong shoulders, toned stomach, nice cock, perfect ass.

 

Phil lets his appreciative sweep go on for too long because when he returns his gaze to Clint’s face there’s a smug smile on his lips.

 

“Paces Barton.” Phil reminds.

 

Clint goes through his positions with his normal grace—but the added layer of sculpted nudity tempts even Coulson’s impeccable control.

 

By the time Clint’s at downward present, Phil can barely contain himself.  He makes sure to keep a tight hold of his Dom headspace.

 

“Hold there.” He commands and loves that Clint is loose enough to shudder.

 

Phil kicks out Clint’s legs a little wider. And runs both hands up those powerful thighs and over the pert mounds of his ass. “You’re going to hold this like a good boy, right Barton?”

 

Clint whines, “Yes, sir.”

 

Phil hums and continues his exploration—dragging a thumb over Clint’s tight pink hole, along his seam.  He cups Clint’s full cock, and rolls his balls gently—enjoying how his cock pulses in time with his renegade whimper.

 

Clint’s thighs are quivering and Phil notices a sheen of sweat on the nape of his neck.  But Phil’s not finished. Phil leans in to that perfect hole and blows some air over it—watching intently as it clenches.  Then, cruelly he knows, Phil traces the rim with his tongue. Clint gasps. The sound and the taste make Phil’s cock throb.

 

Phil presses his tongue flat against the puckered hole, and then slowly coaxes it, pushing his tongue again, and again until it loosens up ever so much.  He makes sure to keep a firm grip on Clint’s ass cheeks and occasionally swipes his tongue lower, along the archer’s heavy sac.

 

Clint’s gasping and moaning like crazy. But he holds his position like he’s expected.

 

Phil continues to torture him, slurping around that delicious hole until its wet and needy and fluttering uncontrollably. Phil gives it a chaste kiss goodbye, for the time being, and the act draws a broken cry from Clint.  Phil smiles and rises.

 

“I love the way you taste Clint. And you held that position so well for me.”  Phil’s standing in front of Clint, and buries his hand in his hair, lifting him from there into a standing position.  Clint’s pupils are wide and his face flushed and his cock dripping with need.

 

“Now, I want you to go to the bedroom, prop a pillow under your hips, open your legs wide for me, and wait there, understood?”

 

Clint nods and realizing Phil’s waiting for his proper answer, adds shakily, “Yes sir.”

 

“And Clint, you are not allowed to touch yourself yet.”

 

Clint’s groan is clipped and broken. When the archer disappears into Phil’s bedroom, Phil has to squeeze the base of his cock for a few seconds to cool his ardor.

 

Right, supplies. He needs lube, and some toys—he’ll see what Barton can handle.

 

Some moments later ehen Phil enters the bedroom Clint is breathing rapidly and his eyes are filled with longing. His fingers are clenched in the bedspread and his legs are spread impressively wide.

 

Phil walks his fingers up one of Clint’s thighs, enjoying the trail of goosebumps they leave in their wake. He skits around Clint’s hole, up his perniulum, ghosts around his sack and the crown of his cock. He’s so fucking hard. Phil smiles with glee.

 

“Report Barton.” Phil commands, making sure to make eye contact.

 

“Green, sir, green, _please_.” Clint’s back arches just the slightest.

 

Phil raises an eyebrow at the early desperation he hears in Clint’s voice.  The sub is begging, already, and fuck its better than Phil had imagined it would be.

 

“I’m going to take care of you Clint. But we’re going to go at my pace. Nice and slow, ease you into it.” Phil smiles at Clint’s frustrated whimper.

 

Phil pulls the foot bench out from the bed a little so that he can sit facing Clint’s perfect ass.  He keeps one hand planted on Clint’s stomach, grounding him while the other uncaps the lube and generally drizzles it over his eager hole and down his balls.

 

Phil starts with one finger and finds that although Clint is tight, he’s also antsy, pleading for another before Phil is past the second knuckle.  Phil obliges, however, and notes how Clint sucks in a turned on breath by the sudden breach. It seems Clint likes the feeling of being stretched, it might be the burn or the fullness, Phil will have to follow-up after and ask.

 

By the time Phil has stuffed Clint with three fingers, the bratty sub is circling his hips and babbling, talking about needing it, needing to so bad, been waiting for it.  Phil wishes he could just pull out his dick from his trousers and shove so deep that Clint chokes on his words.  But he wont. He has more self-control then that and besides, Phil likes to build at things.  It will be so much sweeter down the road when Clint is mindlessly begging for only Phil’s cock.

 

Instead, Phil pulls out a set of heavy duty anal beads. Clint expressed liking the idea on his kink list.  He pops in two of the cold steal balls inside Clint in quick succession.  Waiting a beat and then pushing in the third.

 

Clint gasps. Phil stops, the fourth is larger than his three fingers.  But when Clint licks his lips and bucks his hips, Phil pops the next one in, which earns him a wanton moan.

 

“Report Barton.”  Phil’s circling the fifth around Clint’s rim teasingly—that one will be a good ole stretch.

 

“I’m good, good, green sir."

 

Phil pushes in the fifth, but keeps it settled at the rim, watching for a few moments at how fucking sexy Clint’s stretch out hole looks.  Clint’s “oh” and subsequent shudder is a good indication that, indeed, the stretch is part of the turn on.  Phil gives him the heavy bead and then another and another.

 

“Fuck, sir, its so much, so heavy I…” Clint trails off into a bitten gasp because one of the beads probably sits right on his prostate.

 

“Circle your hips, Barton, I want you to really feel them.”

 

Clint groans brokenly but complies, shaking and moaning as the steal beds roll inside him.

 

“Keep going.” Phil is entranced. Clint moves with such grace. His lean abs, the strong thighs and glutes.  Phil decides the only thing that would make an even more delectable vision would be a little jewelry. Phil reaches for his adjustable steal clamps.

 

Clint eyes them and shakes his head furiously. “I can’t sir, fuck no.”

 

Phil doesn’t hear a safe word so goes ahead and clips them both on, adjusting the tightness to what he thinks will be just enough pain to get Clint all flustered and needy.

 

“Report, Barton.”

 

Clint moans and whimpers. Hips still canting, eyes squeezed shut.  Phil tugs at Clint’s hair and makes good eye contact. “Clint.” He repeats.

 

“Its too much sensation. I, can’t, fuck I need to come sir. Please.” Clint’s eyes are glazing and its making Phil giddy.

 

“Alright, just take one more for me.”

 

Clint whines, his head shaking back and forth. But, no safe word. “Color, Barton.”

 

“Green, green. Green. Sir, I’m so close.”

 

“Not until after the next one.” Phil reminds him and adds a little more lube for good measure before gently working the last bead into the horny sub before him.

 

Clint throws his head and arches his neck, grunting as the last bead really works him open.  Its just a bit smaller than a lime but has a solid weight to it. As soon as it settles inside, Clint is pressing his thighs together, opening them again, humping the air and babbling nonsense.  He doesn’t touch himself though, and Phil is very impressed.

 

Phil lays himself over Clint, crawling and settling his weight on his forearms on either side of Clint’s head. His sub is looking wide eyed and flushed and so fucking gorgeous.

 

“You’re so beautiful.” Phil whispers, breath flitting over Clint’s parted mouth.  Clint leans up with a pleading whine and Phil knows what he wants. He leans down and takes his mouth, it’s a messy press of lips but there’s a deepness there too—a passion. Phil gropes inside with his tongue and tastes Clint and lust.  With his mouth still working Clint over, and his clothed chest adding even more stimulation to Clint’s abused nipples, Phil reaches between them and gives Clint’s hot cock three tight tugs before Clint is crying out and tightening all over.

 

\--O—

 

His orgasm lasts forever. He's high and then he's down but he's having wicked aftershocks especially because Phil keeps pulling out those fucking beads!  When he's more oriented, he realizes Phil is cleaning him up, scrubbing the oily lube from between his legs, licking up his come from his stomach--- Clint's brain short circuits. If he didn't just have the most intense orgasm of his life he would have been rock hard again.

 

"Sir." Clint doesn't actually know what to say. But his eyes focus on the obvious white stain on Phil's hip and his gut clenches with fear, "Did I get come on your suit? Fuck, I'm so--"

  
"Shh. I have others." And his smile is all soft and easy, like it happens all the time or something. Phil continues cleaning him, reverently passing the wash cloth over Clint's stretched hole. Which brings Clint to another thought.

  
"What about--" He reaches toward Phil's crotch, seeing the stretched fabric of his trousers. "I can--"

 

"No baby, that was for you." Phil kisses him, and that blanks Clint out for a good while. Phil just called him baby. Phil is kissing him, again. Clint feels cared for, and appreciated, and wanted. He sighs into Phil's mouth.

 

Clint never realized how wound tight he was until this moment, lying down and not wanting to move a single muscle. He’s almost certain that Phil will let him stay, would want him to stay.  He’s a good Dom like that.

 

Finished with his cleaning, Phil rolls the wash cloth up and tosses it into the hamper in the corner. His expression when he turns back is so warm, Clint blinks and looks down.  Phil touches his face, nice and possessive. "I'm going to take a shower, I want you under the covers when I get out. Its okay if you’re dozing."

 

Clint accepts the quick peck and watches intently as Phil sets to getting undressed. When Phil is throwing a towel over his shoulder, his defined abs and thick cock on full display, Clint knows he's lost some brain cells.  Phil looks amused. "Under the covers Clint." He reminds, in that sexy command voice.

 

Clint nods absently and moves like he's under water.

 

God Damn.

 

Holy Fuck.

 

Clint tries to stay awake.  He strains his ears to listen to Phil's movements but the sounds of the running water, the warm covers and, of course, the mind blowing orgasm have him drifting lightly.  When he blinks his eyes open again, Phil is toweling off, cock only half hard. Clint frowns and wonders why the thought of Phil taking a cold shower instead of using Clint's body is so disappointing.

 

Phil climbs in the other side, fully nude and casual and pulls Clint into their normal sleeping positions (because they have those now).  The pressure on his chest draws Clint’s attention to his aching nipples. And, oh yeah, the there were clamps once... The feeling is a bit of a turn on, as is Phil’s mouth moving sweetly against his own.

 

While his tongue strokes inside Clint’s mouth, Phil's hand wanders possessively, scratching along Clint’s back, squeezing at his ass, spreading the cheeks and stroking the rim.  Clint is hard again and he groans into Phil's mouth.

 

"Your refractory period is impressive." Phil sounds honestly surprised.

 

"'s not usually like this." Clint looks down, under the covers, half inspecting his needy cock.

 

Phil chuckles at him and Clint realizes how silly he looks.

 

Phil presses his lips together--wearing a type of considering expression that Clint knows well. Phil locks eyes with Clint and nods, decision made.  Clint holds his breath because fuck he wants to come so bad...again.

 

"Tell me what you want exactly, Clint."

 

Clint takes less than a blink before the words are tumbling out, "I want you to come inside me, sir."

 

Phil's eyebrows raise up two notches and then settle into a delighted smirk. "You want to be filled up with my come, baby? Maybe even plugged all night so I can add more in the morning?"

 

Clint closes his eyes and shudders.

 

Phil moves assertively, kneeling between Clint's spread legs, and yanking his hips on to his lap. Without any hesitation he's shoving two fingers in and tightly circling Clint's prostate. Clint yells.

 

"Mmm. You're still pretty loose and wet." Phil climbs slightly atop Clint and snatches the lube from the bedside table.

 

Clint watches, mesmerized, as Phil, palms his cock, spreading the lube up and down the shaft. He adds some to Clint's rim as well.

 

"Now, I had meant to do this properly, slowly, at a later date. But you told me what you wanted and I want to reward you. I also want to ram you into the mattress." Phil explains matter of factly. "color, Clint?"

 

"Green, sir, fuck I want it." Clint licks his lips and grinds into phil.

 

Phil smacks his thigh. "Greedy sub."

 

Clint might have apologized, out of instinct, even though Phil's tone was affectionate, but Phil doesn't give him a chance. Instead he shoves Clint so full of his cock that Clint's whole body locks in pleasure.

 

“God you look so beautiful taking my cock." Phil groans jaggedly.  "So fucking beautiful"

 

Clint whimpers because _that_ , that adoration might just be the thing that breaks him. Though, the feeling of Phil moving inside him is also overwhelming his system to the point that he is certain Phil can do absolutely ANYTHING to him and he wouldn't give a flying fuck.

 

Phil keeps an unforgiving pace but alternates the angle of his hips so that he intermittently plows Clint's prostate. Clint might just come without a touch to his cock at all.

 

Phil shifts and hikes Clint's legs up further, enabling him to go that much deeper.  The position allows him to put some force behind his long strokes. Clint notices absently that Phil is covered in a sheen of sweat. Clint wonders if this is the stuff ancient legend is made of--a powerful, dominant demi-god just owning his sub's ass, sweating like a porn star.

 

"You're going to look so pretty when you come, so stretched and full of my cock."  Phil babbles on, but shifts back on his heels so that he can spread Clint's ass cheeks.

 

"S-sir?"  Phil's thrusts have slowed and Clint is almost _there_.

 

"Shh baby, let me just watch this sweet hole getting stuffed so full."

 

Oh. fuck.

 

"Fuck Sir, I'm gonna come."

 

"Mmm.  Go on then, let me watch you."  Phil's eyes stay transfixed on his hole, cock moving languidly in and out, brushing his prostate every time.

 

The attention is intoxicating but he just needs--

 

Suddenly, Phil palms the head of Clint's cock, running his thumb along the slit and under the sensitive head and its just enough and way too much because Clint is tightening and coming and spasming all over. And Phil just keeps egging him on, one hand keeping his ass cheek spread, the other firmly pumping Clint's cock.

 

"There you go, just like that, knew it would be like this. Knew it would be just like this"

 

Clint can barely hear over his own breathing. He can still feel Phil moving inside him but its fuzzier.  Everything is bright and far away.

 

"Tighten your hole for me baby, I'm nearly there."

 

Clint whimpers but complies he's so over-stimulated and squeezing around Phil's cock sparks powerful aftershocks that are just a shy painful. But it’s worth it, because Phil is _loosing_ it above him.

 

"Yes, fuck, yes, so close."

 

Clint gives one last powerful squeeze and Phil is groaning and pumping Clint's ass full of seed.  It feels like forever before Phil softens and after that Clint isn't capable of noticing much since Phil's lips are kissing him affectionately.

 

"You were divine.  Perfect."  Phil says between kisses.  Clint's not sure that is true but it sounds heavenly to his fucked-out ears.

 

Clint's aware that Phil is shuffling around--how he is capable of such coordinated movement is wholly beyond Clint's understanding of the world at the moment.  But then Phil is back, a wicked smile splitting his face and Clint feels the cool flared head of something pushing inside.  He groans and tries to push himself to his elbows to get a better look.

 

"I typically follow through on my word Barton." Phil's voice is playful as he pushes the object deeper inside Clint.  Its so much, maybe too much, but Clint takes it, for Phil. "I'm going to plug my come all inside you, color?"

 

Clint's voice is a hoarse mess but he manages to say "green" in such a way that Phil rubs down his thighs and calls him a good boy.

 

Clint shudders because fuck, the plug is there, a little smaller than Phil's cock but very present. And then Phil goes and licks Clint's come off his stomach and makes this lewd eye contact so that Clint clenches involuntary on the plug and then yelps with the force of _that_ sensation.

 

"You took that so well," Phil praises "I'm very impressed."

 

Clint knows he's smiling goofily and drifting in and out but Phil can handle the rest, whatever that is, and Clint can handle the plug, for Phil.

 

"Good boy." Phil whispers again and mouths his neck and that’s the last thing Clint hears before he wakes up the next morning--sore, plugged, somewhat sticky and alone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful feedback! I have really enjoyed reading and responding to your comments :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex... this chapter is all about it ;)

Phil watches from his position at his desk as Clint comes around, groggy then confused, then panicked.  Phil cuts in before his beautiful sub can get too frightened.

 

"Shh baby, I'm right here."

 

Clint instantly relaxes, sagging back into the bed looking ridiculously charming with his muzzy hair and part sleepy, part dopey eyes.

 

"How are you feeling?"

 

Clint scrunches his eyebrows and does a clear full body check-in. "m' okay. A little sore."

 

"Yeah? Let me see."

 

Phil moves between Clint's legs and spreads his cheeks, the bright purple plug settled prettily where Phil left it. Phil inches it out, notices how Clint both hisses and shivers.  Phil goes slow, careful because a bit of the lubricant has dried up.

 

Phil takes a long look at Clint's hole and counts to five. Fuck--nothing is more of a turn on than a sub's sloppy used hole. It’s such a funny fetish.

 

"Yes," Phil circles Clint's sensitive rim, "your hole is all pink and puffy"

 

Clint makes a disgruntled sound and cants his hips. "Feels too empty."

 

Phil sucks in a breath and squeezes Clint's hip. "You were plugged up all night."

 

"Are you gonna add more?" Clint cocks his head, almost innocently and Phil has to stifle a growl.

 

"You just said you were sore, I assume that means your hole needs a break."

 

Clint presses his lips together and Phil watches, mesmerized as he clenches and unclenches his hole.  "I can take more sir, please, just gently."

 

Phil sighs, he _shouldn’t.._.

 

Clint interjects during Phil's long pause, ever needy. "It’s too empty sir, please."

 

Phil huffs, "at some point you will learn, Barton, that I don't give my subs everything they ask for.  However, I know asking for things is hard for you and for now, I'm going to support the behavior."

 

Phil almost cackles at himself. _As if_ , he wants nothing more than to get himself back inside Clint.

 

"Hands and forearms." He commands. "We'll take this nice and easy and you'll tell me if it hurts too much."

 

Clint nods enthusiastically and assumes the present position.

 

Phil snatches the lube and generously coats his cock, squeezing a bit over Clint’s rim and pushes some in. He repeats two more times, ever heightened and mindful of the sounds of pleasure and pain that Clint emits.

 

"Relax baby, I'm coming in."

 

Clint audibly breathes out as Phil breaches him, he clenches the sheets then keens, curses then shakes.

 

"Clint, report."  Phil's cock is halfway home and its murder to go this agonizingly slow.

 

"Its a lot. I can take it, its just so much. I, fuck, I need it so bad"

 

Phil hums and continues pushing in until he's fully sheathed. Then shallowly pumps, aiming to graze Clint's prostate and add more pleasure than pain.

 

Clint arches his back and starts begging most attractively, "God, sir, I've never, fuck, I've never been filled like this, I can feel you everywhere."

 

Phil takes a handful of both cheeks and spreads them further apart--God something about Clint's hole stretched out around his cock just gets him.

 

Phil must inform his sub, "Your hole is all used and sore but you're sucking me right in, you need to be filled up, don’t you?"

 

Clint sobs, his body shaking "yes, yes, fuck sir, more."

 

Phil makes his thrusts longer, pulling more out before sliding back in, but makes sure not to increase the force. Clint is in a frenzy--gasping and moaning and whimpering.

 

Phil whispers sweet things into his ear, tells him he’s so fucking beautiful. He makes sure is strokes are even and sure and not too hard. He takes Clint there so that his release is a broken whine and a long sigh.

 

Phil kisses his sub’s neck and shoulders as they both come down. He’s only partially alarmed when Clint turns over and his eyelashes are wet and his eye so fucking round.

 

“Thank you sir.”  He whispers hoarsely.

 

“Of course baby.” Phil watches, raptly, as Clint closes eyes at the sound of the pet name, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

 

\--O--

 

Phil is surprised by how easily he slips into something sexual with Clint.  It feels as it should, another arm of their connection.  Phil finds himself more at home in sexually dominating Clint than he ever had in the early beginnings of their relationship. His instincts with what Clint needs in the bedroom are much sharper and more spot-on than they are for what Clint needs outside the bedroom.

 

Over the last several weeks Clint has been insatiable with his desire to have various sexual experiences with Phil. And Phil has been immensely proud to find that after only minimal prompting and reassurance, the sub is willing to articulate how he feels on every new thing they try.

 

_“I think I liked when you spanked me open hand the best, it felt dirtier. But the paddle with the holes almost made me come. ”_

 

_Phil’s mouth all but dried up.  He had to ignore the paddle comment to keep his focus. “I liked spanking you barehanded too, feeling how hot your ass was getting with each stroke.”_

 

_Clint cocked his head, genuinely curious. “Will it still hurt when you fuck me?”_

 

_“Yes.” Phil smiled wickedly at the way Clint shivered._

 

_“Can we try that? Please, sir, fuck I want to feel that.”_

 

_“Yes, of course, but I want you to beg while I eat you out first.” Phil set himself to giving Clint a good rimming, grabbing handfuls of Clint’s ass to hear him hiss with pleasure._

 

Phil sits at his desk, trying to concentrate on the mission report, but after several weeks of sexual play with Clint, something is nagging him. Clint likes pain.  This isn’t a bad thing because Phil has a sadistic flair, make no doubts about it, but Phil has become concerned lately between juggling Clint’s trauma history on one hand, his hunger for pain, and Phil’s own desire to give and take _more_ somewhere in the middle.

 

Phil doesn’t want to misstep and send this beautiful house-of-cards-of-a-relationship to the floor.  He loves Clint in his bed, taking his cock. He’s petrified that he’ll jeopardize it by misreading the beautiful sub.

 

But the moment has come. Phil knows it. Several nights ago Clint had come screaming with the touch of a pinwheel of spikes to his cock and balls and a low vibrating plug in his ass.  Phil had mentioned, off handedly, that Clint would look so good getting his cock fucked by a urethral sound and Clint looked up at him with pure desire on his already post-orgasmic face.

 

They need to talk.

 

Phil knows this.  He’s pulled away these past few days and Clint has definitely noticed. He’s taken them away from pain play and into more sensory play.  Clint has enjoyed himself but they both can tell something is missing.

 

Phil decides their one-to-one tonight is when he has to come out with it.

 

Phil manages to get through his paperwork and the rest of his day and only thinks about his conversation with Clint several thousand times.  In his supervision with Natasha he completes the entire thing without rising to her bait about what is wrong in “happily ever after land”.

 

Natasha decides to end on a truth bomb since she’s so fucking good at. “He can handle a lot, Phil. You know this. You’ll loose him if you treat him like glass.”

 

Phil scowls at her because she’s right and he hates it.

 

Finally their one-to-one time arrives and Phil is fidgeting like a virgin Dom before his first session.  He’s so beyond this. But not with Clint, not for a long time now.

 

When Clint arrives, right on time (a testament to how nervous he is), Phil knows he’s made the right choice. He can’t allow this to fester. A misstep may end with Phil loosing Clint, but withholding most certainly will.

 

“Sir?” Clint kneels directly in front of Phil and rests his hands on his thighs. _Perfect form_ , Phil thinks offhandedly.

 

“I want to talk about some things Clint.” Phil begins.

 

Clint’s shoulders hunch minutely but he stays looking up at Phil. “Okay, sir.”

 

Phil invites Clint to sit on the couch and Clint complies, though haltingly.

 

Phil cannot have this.  He won’t.  He comes out with it straight away. “I’m scared of loosing you Clint.”

 

Clint’s face twists in surprise but he stays silent. Phil presses on. “I’ve loved discovering our relationship sexually. I’ve loved how your tastes have matched my own. But, the pain play scares me, because of how much I want it and how much more I still want.”

 

“I like the pain too.” Clint sounds relieved. “I thought you would think its because I’m fucked up.”

 

“You’re not fucked up.” Phil reminds his sub sternly.

 

Clint half rolls his eyes but Phil thinks he getting it.  A little each time.

 

“I’m scared because I keep thinking that I’ll take things too far, trigger you somehow and ruin the ground we’ve gained.” Phil stops himself from wincing. Saying his fears out loud makes them sound so much more irrational than they are in his head, not to mention pathetic.

 

Clint worries at his cheek.  A habit he has when he doesn’t think Phil will like what he has to say.  Like when he wants to jump off buildings or expose his position or save babies from A.I. alligators.

 

“Say it.” Phil urges.

 

“Sir, please don’t take this the wrong way but—“ Clint’s eyes spark appealingly. “fuck that.”

 

Phil’s face breaks into a half smile, the type that only comes from Clint’s antics.

 

“Sir, I trust you, you have to know that. I trust you so much I let you tie me up and put lace around my eyes.  That’s fucking huge.”

 

Phil nods, wondering where Clint is going.

 

“You have to trust me too. I know my safewords, and I know you’ll respect them. If this comes crashing down or whatever because of something we do it’s both our faults.”  Clint’s hand reaches out abortively, settling on Phil’s knee. “Trust me not to let you fuck this up.” He pleas, his eyes so fierce.

 

Phil says the only thing he can to a request made so beautifully. “I trust you, Clint.”

 

“Good.” His tone is pleased, like the most endearing brat. “And, trust me when I tell you want to try those sounds. I’ve been googling Sir.” He waggles his eyebrows to convey his meaning.

 

Phil’s grin turns wicked. “Well, we can’t have that. The internet is all lies.”

 

In the end, Phil has the amazing foresight to bind Clint’s legs and midsection to the medical table he had special ordered. He also makes sure Clint is plugged and lubed because he is certain he’ll want to fuck him after the sounding session is through.

 

Phil starts off slow, with a skinny metal sound that is all smooth surface.  Clint stares, fascinated as Phil circles it and dips it shallowly in and out of his cock. As it sinks deeper, Clint’s eyes roll back and his neck arches—his hips trying to fuck up abortively.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck sir I can’t—“ He moans and whimpers the rest of the session, completely unable to string a sentence together.

 

Phil is only able to work him up to a ridged sound, still quite small, before Clint’s begging that he’s too hard and needs to come. Phil adjusts the table, pulling up the stirrup attachments and setting Clint into them. He pulls out the plug from his hole and takes only moments to lubricate his cock before pushing into his sub.

 

Clint screams, his body trying to fuck back into Phil but his movements are restrained and he can barely manage a rock. The going is quick, rough and needy. Clint comes with just two upward strokes and Phil promising him his slit will burn when he spurts.

 

When all the stuff is put away and Clint is dazed and goofy in Phil’s bed receiving aftercare Phil knows that things between them will be alright.  Clint and him will most certainly have issues to wade through, it’s possible the whole subspace thing will have to be worked over at some point.  But, Phil feels more confident than ever that they’ll be happy.

 

Clint belongs to him.  And Phil plans to make that for good.

 

 

-End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers! Here is the end of this work, sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoyed it. :) :)
> 
> A HUGE thank you to MEECE who has given me some wonderful suggestions that I plan to incorporate when I actually get around to editing the entire story :) And a BIG thank you to NIGHT for the additional pair of editing eyes through the comments section :)
> 
> Before I go here, I want to extend the offer of oneshot requests in this universe. I still have some ways to go on getting ahead in the writing of my next story, so in the meantime I'd love some prompts for these two to keep me buy ;)
> 
> With love!


	9. Oneshot: Subspace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mission Subspace will commence in 0800 hours

Clint glares at Phil, his hand clenched around the dishtowel. He _hates_ when Phil does this—using this weird calm Dom voice that should only be reserved for skittish animals or toddlers.

Phil sighs, “Clint, what do you want me to say here?”

“The truth! How can the fact that I have never dipped into subspace _not_ bother you? At all?” Clint growls. 

“You’re projecting.  Why does it bother you so much that I’m not bothered?” Phil’s brows are furrowed and he has that earnest expression on, like he just wants Clint to _see_ —it makes him feel crazier _and_ angrier.

“Because!” Clint yells, words falling forward unfiltered, “It bothers _me_. And you don’t want to work on it!”

Phil’s mouth opens but he pauses, his face blank for only two seconds.  “Baby,” he breathes out and closes the space between them.  He grasps the back of Clint’s neck, giving a firm loving squeeze. Clint hates this too, it makes him feel safe and loved even though he doesn’t want it.  He tries to cling to his anger but it slips through like sand. “Of course we can work on it. I want you to be happy, you know that’s all I want, right?”.

Clint looks at Phil.  He believes him, it’s just— “But _why_ doesn’t it bother you? Seriously, I just, I need to understand.”

Phil wets his lips, his way of trying to put things together. “I think its because you make me so happy.  I don’t feel like we’re missing something.”

Clint turns into putty at the words. Phil is always so good to him. Sometimes a flair of resentment fires off in the face of Phil’s goodness because Clint doesn’t think he deserves the Dom.

Phil loves him, Clint gets that. But he thought that when he found a Dom he trusted and who cared for him _and_ who he was attracted to, that the subspace thing would sort itself out.  He didn’t realize how much blame he was putting on everything and everyone else until he got all the things he wanted in Phil and subspace still eluded him. The knife of that reality only drives home his feelings of inadequacy and fucked up-ness. He’s the bottom-line in this equation, it’s his fault.  

He wants subspace with Phil, he wants it so badly.

“It’s not that I’m not happy with you Phil,” Clint finally manages. “It’s the opposite, kind of.  I don’t know how to explain it. I just want… I want to share something like that with you.”

Clint can’t quite put words to it. It feels like its something he can’t give Phil and he wonders if Phil thinks that their connection isn’t that strong or that Clint doesn’t actually trust him.  He worries that Phil harbors those thoughts. Clint feels the only way to truly express that he _does_ love Phil and trust him is through subspace—the ultimate gift.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” Phil’s voice becomes sure and authoritative.  Clint’s cock pulses to life. “You’re going to work on this with Audrey in your sessions.  You and I will talk about this and plan some scenes in our one-to-ones and let’s say a month from now we’ll start sceneing with this goal as our focus.”

Clint chokes out a laugh—“Affirmative. Mission Subspace will commence in 0800 hours.”

Phil cracks a smile and presses his lips against Clint’s—the kiss quickly turning wet and heated.  Somehow Clint ends up on the kitchen island, with Phil kissing him and rubbing his thighs.

“I love you Clint.” Phil says seriously. “And I know you love me.”

Clint links his arms around Phil’s neck. “I know that, I just want to show you.  I need you to know how much—“

“I _do_ know. If this is what you want we can work on it, but I don’t want you to think its something I need to keep loving you.”

Clint nuzzles Phil’s throat. “Okay.” And then, to break the heavy air, “Can you show me how much you love me on your kitchen island?”

Phil hums, “Only if I get to use the spreader bar. And the whipped cream.”

Clint lays himself back, making a show of arching his back. “Of course, sir.  Whatever you want.”

\--O—

Audrey shifts forward in her chair. “Okay Clint, lets try something. Recount to me all the scenes with Phil where you thought you came close to subspace.  We’re going to treat this like recon.”

Clint blushes because while he has always been open with Aubrey he hasn’t been _detailed_.

She smiles, her almond eyes turning to half moons. “I’ve heard everything Clint.  Don’t be shy.”

Clint takes a few moments to think. In some ways, every sexual encounter with Phil feels like he’s close to subspace.  But that isn’t exactly true.  There were two times really. That one time with the flogger and the paddle and that other time with the crop and the bristle gloves. He tells Aubrey about them and does his best to treat it like a mission report.  He knows he’s flushed with embarrassment and the echoes of arousal by the end, but her steady clinical approach doesn’t waver.

“Okay, so far we have common variables of pain and the experience of Phil pushing you beyond what you thought you could handle, is that accurate?”

Clint nods.

“Describe what it felt like, that moment where you thought you were “on the verge of something” as you put it.”

Clint scrunches up his face. “I don’t know. That one time with the bristle glove, I had just come, orgasamed, and Phil was still finishing, as in fucking me and I felt like—this is weird to say, but I felt like the edges were fraying and I was almost out of body.  But he finished and I came down. It was a very quick feeling.”

“Have you ever communicated that to him, in your debriefs?” Audrey has on this soft expression that she gets when she’s trying to lead Clint to the point.

“No.  It wasn’t something to mention, I mean everything with Phil is mindblowing, I wasn’t disappointed or anything.”  Clint hears his shallow defensive undertone.

“Just because something isn’t disappointing doesn’t mean its unworthy of being shared.” She pushes softly.

“I can barely explain it to _you_ , what is he supposed to do with that? I’m not even asking for something specific.” Clint doesn’t like this part of the therapy game. It feels like she’s withholding something.  Like she has all the cards and she’s making him guess at each of them one by one.

“I would challenge you to trust Phil with that information.  He’s your Dom and knows possibly better than anybody.  I imagine he’ll know what he wants to do with it, even if it’s just to clarify what you were feeling at the time.”

Clint tries very hard to keep the scowl from his face. As many times as Phil has reminded him that Audrey isn’t going to wave a magic wand and make things go away, Clint can never shake the desire for her to just _tell_ him what she thinks is best.  The medical staff have no problem with that—why can’t she?

In the end, Clint grudgingly complies with her gentle suggestions.  They plan next steps, one of which is telling Phil about his two experiences nearing subspace, and they set up a time for the following week.

As Clint leaves Audrey’s office, he wishes Nat wasn’t undercover for the next 3 months. She always told him things straight up, no chaser.  The woman _was_ Russian after all.

\--O--

All Clint wants to do is flop on his back dramatically. Phil has talked them and planned them and dissected them to death.

“Clint.” Phil’s tone is chastising.

Clint just can’t help it, he whines like a two year old “I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to have sex, I don’t care about the subspace thing, that was stupid, I’m over it, I want you to fuck meee.”

When Clint side-eyes Phil he sees him suppressing a laugh.  The crinkles around his eyes dance.  “Clint, you asked that we work on this.  Working on something can be hard, did you think it would be easy?”

Clint knows he’s being petulant, but he can’t help it. He pouts. “No, maybe. I dunno.”  He crosses his arms.  Phil hasn’t fucked him in three weeks!

Phil bends down and traces his bottom lip with his trigger finger. “Stop that.  You’re making me consider a daddy-kink scene.”

Clint’s eyes light and turn mischievous, “Please daddy, I need you to take care of me. Please daddy, let me be your good boy… or your bad boy, whatever you want.”

Phil’s expression hardens. “Strip down, Clint. You need a good long flogging to put you back in place.”

Clint almost yips with glee.  He pulls off his shirt excitedly and nearly trips on his jeans on his way to their St. Andrew’s Cross.

Phil’s voice rings out after him, “No Clint, I didn’t tell you we were using The Cross.”  Clint stops and Phil’s hand is right there, tight around his shoulder. “I want you kneeling in front of The Frame, please.”

Clint shudders with excitement. If they’re using The Frame then Phil wants access to his back and front.

Phil takes his time before coming back to Clint. Clint has no fucking idea what the Dom could be _doing_. He uses every piece of calming technique available to him so that he’s not fidgeting and looking behind himself every two seconds to spot Phil coming. 

In time Phil returns to him, and the first thing he feels is the leather of Phil’s favorite flogger tracing his shoulder blades, the length of his spine. “Stand up please, arms above your head, feet apart.”

Clint does as instructed, already calmed by the process of having both wrists and both ankles cuffed.  This might be his favorite bondage position—it leaves him completely exposed to Phil, just the way he wants to be.

Also, he’s already achingly hard.

Phil takes his time, caressing Clit with the deceptively soft leather. He starts off with rhythmic taps, setting of erotic sessions all along Clint’s back, the muscles of his ass, thighs even a few arousing taps to his balls.  Clint’s a whimpering _mess_ by the time Phil decides to get on with it.

“You know your safewords.”  Phil’s stern voice reminds him.  Clint only has a few seconds to wonder why Phil hasn’t given him a number before the strikes rain down and then the thought flits right out of his head—wasn’t important anyway.

Phil uses strong, steady hits that settle Clint with their thud and consistency.  Phil takes his time, really working Clint’s upper back, ass and chest over. Clint can feel his skin emitting heat and glowing from the flogging.

“You’re all flushed and pretty, baby. God I love you like this.” Phil rambles.

Phil moves around to Clint’s front, dragging his open palm along Clint’s skin.  Clint tips his head up and moans, loving the way Phil is watching his own hand explore and tease his nipples.  Pinching to send a sharp sing of pain, rubbing and squeezing possessively.

Phil takes a punishing grip of Clint’s cock—“And look at this pretty cock, hard and leaking for me.  If I had flogged your cock you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself from coming, would you?”  Phil’s voice is warm despite the taunt.

“Please, sir, fuck I’m so hard.” Clint squeezes his eyes shut because if he keeps looking he’ll loose all his training and rut into Phil’s hand shamelessly.

Phil grasps Clint by the hair and tips his head further back to look him in the eyes. “None of that, I’m not quite finished.”

Clint can only manage a whimper, his body putty in Phil’s very capable hands.

Phil circles behind Clint and collects another object. “The flogging is a nice heavy tool.  It’s very good for warm up. But you can take some of my cane tonight. Some welts will set you back into place nicely.”

Clint barely releases a needy whine before Phil lays three highly skilled lines across his ass. Clint gasps at the sudden and fierce sting.  He rides the peak of the pain, white hot, until it dulls out into something fucking beautiful.

Phil comes around and lays a thwack across his chest, hitting Clint’s nipples.  Clint screams out, his back arching at the abuse to his sensitive nubs. “Fuck sir!”

Sweat drips down the back of his neck.

Phil pulls a stool up, from where Clint is somehow unable to guess, and sits with his mouth perfectly poised in front of Clint’s straining dick.  Phil licks the head in quick, tormenting flicks.

“No sir, fuck, I can’t, I’ll come!” Clint begs, his voice sounds desperate even to himself.

“You beg so beautifully, Clint.” Phil picks up a smaller cane and Clint’s eyes widen.  “You can come, baby.”  Phil smiles wickedly and passes measured taps of the cane over the head of Clint’s cock, down his shaft, and once over his balls. 

Clint’s whole body locks up with pain, his mouth formed around a scream. But the feeling somehow converts to a mind-numbing spike of pleasure and he’s sure he’s coming even before Phil goes for his balls. He shudders and shouts and comes so fucking hard he sags against his cuffs with most of weight by the end of it all—completely disregarding the soreness of his wrists.

Phil raises his head with his hair, which had lowered like the rest of him in a post-orgasmic haze. “That was such a lovely show, Clint.  Now, I’m going to release your cuffs.  After you’re free, you’re going to the bed, prop yourself up on your knees and forearms and wait for me.”

Clint whimpers. Phil usually times it so that Clint comes with Phil already pumping away inside him.  This means Clint will have to take the added sensation of Phil opening him up, stretching him, and pounding him after such an intense orgasm.

Phil’s voice is soft with understanding, “You don’t think you can take it.  But you will. For me you will. Especially because you have the neediest, sweetest hole, I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking.  Now, off you go.”

Clint crawls to the bed, which earns him an appreciative groan from Phil.  Really, it just feels like the best way to get there.  He climbs up and positions himself just as Phil asked—his mind is fuzzy and his body heavy.

When Phil drags his open palms over the curve of his abused ass and squeezes, Clint’s surprise gasp quickly turns into a pleased whimper.

“Such a good boy, Clint. Now, I want to play with your hole for a little bit and I know you’ll be a good boy and keep position, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Phil spreads Clint’s cheeks, his fingers digging in and adding a layer of pain that has Clint’s mind whirling. Phil takes only a moment before he is spitting into Clint’s hole and fucking _eating_ him out.  His tongue licking and probing vigorously.

“Fuck, Sir, fuck fuck fuck”

Phil laps greedily for a little while then pulls back and squeezes some cold lube at the top of Clint’s crack so that he has to feel the slippery liquid all the way down to his balls.  Next thing he knows, Phil is opening him up, two fingers deep and Clint shouts.

“Take it baby, we both know you love the burn.”

Clint whines. It’s true, he does love it, but the play is making his limp cock stir and Clint is nervous that he’ll pass out, he’s never come back to back like this.  Phil typically doesn’t push him this hard.

By the time Phil works Clint up to four fingers, Clint is fully hard and moaning freely.  Phil rapidly pumps his fingers into Clint, angling every so often for Clint’s prostate so that he yelps out.

“Alright baby, on your back, I want to watch your face.”

Clint rushes to comply, eager for the pleasure that awaits them both.  He releases a surprised groan when Phil brings out his bicep and thigh cuffs.  He pulls them on and adjusts them.  Phil quickly flexes Clint’s leg and all of a sudden Clint gets it—Phil links the thigh and bicep cuffs together to that Clint’s thighs are high and open, his hole completely open to Phil.  In this position—Phil could get so fucking deep. Clint shudders in anticipation.

“I’m going to fuck you really hard baby, you know your words. I want to make sure by the time I’m through you feel me for days.”

“Yes, sir, please, please.”

Phil forces himself past Clint’s tight ring of muscle and doesn’t stop until his hips are pressed against Clint’s groin. Phil reaches forward to grab hold of the head board and— _oh_ —Clint’s eyes roll back as Phil just nails him, in and out, repeatedly, using the frame for leverage. He tells Clint to take it like a good boy.  Its all Clint can do, spread open like this, his ass getting slapped by Phil’s pumping, the pain taking him with the pleasure.

Suddenly he feels it all slipping, what exactly he isn’t sure.  It’s like when he’s climbing and a hold gives out or one starts sliding, like he’ll fall if he doesn’t hold on tighter.  Something him and Audrey talked about comes to him…

_Sometimes we get so used to holding on to something that we forget that there is anything to let go of in the first place._

Clint realizes he’s scared to let go, he doesn’t know how far he will fall, he doesn’t know how he’ll stop falling. He looks up dazedly at Phil, sees him sweating beautifully, spouting the most lovely compliments about him. Phil will take care of him. He’s jumped off buildings on the man’s command alone.

Clint breathes in and then lets go.

It’s like all the good parts of jumping with none of the bad of falling.  He’s high and soaring. Removed and safe. It’s beautiful.

In an abstract part of his body, he feels Phil moving inside him, grazing his overstimulated gland.  He knows he’s close to coming, he can feel the needy build. With only a couple tugs to his cock, from Phil’s practiced hand, Clint screams, or he thinks he does, and the wave of his pleasure bowls him over.

As he’s being borne away, Clint gets it. The subspace thing. He totally gets it.

\--O—

When Clint comes to, he’s being peppered with kisses. His legs are unhooked, but the cuffs are still on his thighs and biceps.  Phil’s body is draped over him, his softening cock at his hip, his forearms on either side of his head.  There’s stickiness between his ass checks and he’s sore everywhere.

“You are so beautiful, baby.”

Clint blinks up, getting oriented to Phil’s actual words.

“You with me?”

“Yeah, I think.”  Clint’s tongue feels heavy.

“I’m gonna clean us up.  Then more after care, okay?”

“How long was I out?” Clint’s eyebrows scrunch. Things are dried enough to be… unpleasant.

“Almost two hours.”  Clint might have panicked at Phil’s response if it wasn’t followed by the most blindingly proud smile he had ever seen the man wear. And, oh fuck, Phil’s eyes are moist at the rim.

“Wow.” Clint manages. “Seems like a long time.”

“Its still within normal range. Especially..”  Phil brushes his thumb along Clint’s cheekbone. “Especially, for your first dip.” Phil looks like he wants to say more but then pulls back. “I’ll only be a second.”

True to his nature, Phil is quick and efficient about clean up.  After Phil makes sure that Clint drinks half a bottle of water and two nibbles of chocolate, they’re tucked into bed, Clint’s head resting on Phil’s chest, in no time at all.

“Clint, that was the most beautiful thing. I, I’m so grateful to you.” Phil’s chest rumbles under Clint’s ear.

Clint is too wiped to really have this conversation but he does what he can. “I love you.”  He mumbles tiredly.

“I know baby. I love you too.” Phil sounds chocked up but Clint doesn’t have the energy to lift his head.

“Can this mean I stop telling Audrey about our sex life?” Clint mutters, drifting off.

Phil huffs out a laugh and wipes at something on his face. “Maybe a few more debriefing sessions. But overall yes, if you’d like.”

“kay.” Clint feels the covers being pulled over him, and thank fuck because all of a sudden he’s cold as hell. Phil’s arm pulls him closer and Clint snuggles down happily.  Subspace is so not overrated, he thinks.  Subspace is awesome. More accurately, Phil is awesome.  Clint feels like the luckiest sub in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Pegasus_Eridana and TheHappyEgg who requested the subspace oneshot! I'm still working on my new WIP, so if you have oneshot prompts, send them my way :)


	10. Oneshot: SHIELD Christmas Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Impervious and Nonnica who wanted a prompt about another Dom messing with Clint
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> :)

Clint looks down in his drawer— _his_ drawer in Phil’s apartment—the idea still makes him giddy.   The dilemma that he is facing, however, does not.  Clint fingers the beautiful wood and steal box that holds his collar.  The collar that Phil gave him, the one that Clint accepted in shock.

This will be their first outing as a bonded couple in a SHEILD environment. Clint wouldn’t risk his collar in the field or at practice.  He only prefers wearing it at home or to formal events.  Which this is, well it’s what the venue suggests that it is.  He doesn’t _really_ know if it’s that formal, he was on a mission during SHIELD’S Christmas party last year and the year before that.  Three years ago him and Nat dipped in, stole vodka, and dipped out. That was before Phil, though. Before he was an established agent. Before he was collared.

Clint sighs.  Something about wearing it makes him uneasy. He likes pretending that his and Phil’s relationship is oh so private, only belonging to them. Clint’s confident that there are still a number of people that don’t know about the collaring.

While deliberating, he hears Phil coming out of the walk-in closet, and creeping behind him.

“You don’t have to wear it darling.” Phil nuzzles his neck and kisses the tight muscles there.

“It wouldn’t bother you?” Clint turns. With all his experience with Phil and his suits he is only just able to keep from dropping to his knees and begging to suck the man off.  Really though, its inhumane to have a man look _that_ good in a suit.

“No, it wouldn’t.  I just want you to be comfortable.” Clint searches Phil’s face for the truth.  “Now, if we were going to another agency’s Christmas party, I would pretty much demand it.” Clint quirks his eyebrow in question. Phil explains, “Since everyone at SHEILD knows you’re mine, in some capacity, it doesn’t bother me.  If it helps, I know that May wears hers every year, so you wouldn’t be the only one.” Phil pulls Clint into a heated, but short kiss. “I’m going to bring the car around.”

“Okay.” Clint turns back to his drawer and thinks. He isn’t ashamed of being collared, it’s the opposite.  He’s fucking honored. That Phil picked him, that Phil wants him. He can have anybody.

It’s just…he wants the collar to be something between the two of them.  If only for a little while longer.

Decision made.  Clint shuts the drawer.

He quickly turns off the lights, sets the alarm and locks up the apartment.  He takes the elevator down to the garage, where Phil is waiting by the doors with his SUV. He doesn’t like driving Lola in the winter.

Clint hops in and if Phil thinks anything about Clint’s bare neck, he doesn’t let on in the slightest.

 

\--O--

 

The party is at a fancy downtown hotel. Clint was expects the beautiful set up—complete with a 12 foot tall Christmas tree, a full meal spread, and crystals, like, everywhere.  He does not expecti all his SHIELD people to look so….hot. Fuck, Melinda May and Maria Hill are in gowns, GOWNS.

Phil guides Clint through the crowd with his hand on Clint’s middle back until they are safely at the bar. Phil orders his G&T and turns to Clint who is about to give his order except his jaw drops so far it probably hits the bar top. 

Nat is in a floor length dress, open back, and bright red.  Her make-up done up 20s style.

Nat catches his eye and smiles (well quirked her lips just so) and sides up to him.

“You look handsome.” She comments smoothly.

“You look…like a fucking movie star. Phil,”  Clint tugs on Phil’s arm. “Look at Nat.”

Phil doesn’t hide his amusement. “Yes, Clint’s right, you look beautiful Natasha.”

Phil and Nat share a look—Clint’s stopped trying to figure out their creepy Dom language. So he just keeps on his own train of thought.

“Nat, you’re going to give the junior subbies heart attacks.” Clint scopes the room, sure enough everyone is either openly staring, or trying very hard not to keep looking back at her.

Nat raises her delicate eyebrow. “Hardly.” She nods to Phil. “I’m going to circulate.  Let me know if you need eyes on him.”

“Hey! I’m a level 6 agent, I don’t need babysitters.” Clint protests. But Nat is already sauntering away. Clint lightly punches Phil’s arm. “Stop snickering.”

Phil straightens. “I apologize darling. What did you want to drink?” Clint just gets a scotch and he gives Phil a warning side-eye the whole time the bartender preps it, which is maybe a minute.

They move as a unit with their drinks to a high top table and it’s a matter of seconds before people start drifting over to them, chatting them up.  Phil gets pulled off into a handler discussion that is much too boring for Clint. And Clint, well he gets his own crowd, because he’s always had a snarky performer inside waiting to marinate in attention.  The waiters keep bringing little o’douvres and offering to bring him another scotch, which Clint always agrees to happily.

Before he knows it, he’s tipsy.

Which means he’s loud.

And waving his hands wildly while recounting how one doesn’t get eaten by a Bengal tiger while cleaning its cage with it inside.

The crowd around him is laughing though. So he’s not like, getting weird looks.

When he hits the punch line, he feels Nat’s cool hand on his shoulder. “I think we’ve had enough scotch, no?”

Clint eyes her. She perfectly in her faculties, as usual.  She never believes in altering the system.  Always prepared and at the ready.  It fascinates Clint how she can fake the drunk girl act so well when its possible she’s never been intoxicated in her life… ah life’s mysteries.

“You don’t like my stories?” Clint challenges, just to be cheeky.

“I’ve heard them all.”

“The beauty is in the retelling, Nat-Nat. Something different can catch you each time.”

Nat narrows her eyes over his shoulder and Clint knows its Phil approaching. “Time to go?” Phil questions.

“He called me Nat Nat.”  Nat tattles. Rude Nat.

“Ah.” Phil’s smiling. Clint knows without turning around. “Then definitely time to go home.”

“You two gang up on me.” Clint pouts. But he’s not really mad.  It’s the end of the night and they definitely aren’t the first to go.

“Wait for me in the lobby.” Phil tells him, and brushes his lips over his ear.

Clint knows he’ll bring the car around. So he stays with Nat for a little while and then heads to the lobby.

Clint gets his coat from the coat check and smiles dopily to himself as he pull over his scarf, because it smells a little like Phil’s apartment.

“You headed out?”

Clint doesn’t answer at first, thinking the man beside him is talking to someone else.  But then he turns and sees that the man is smiling expectantly at him. He’s handsome—in that great Gatsby, kind of classic American, kind of way.  Phil read that book to him over the summer as a way to get Clint away from “ridiculous” teen fiction.  The man is exactly how Clint would picture a Tom Buchanan.

“Um, yeah.”

“I’m Tom.”  The man offers his hand.

Clint stifles a laughing fit, because seriously? He called that shit.  He gives the man a handshake. “I’m Clint.”

“Clint. Good to meet you.” The man, Tom, licks his lips and does a spectacular job of not hiding his once over of Clint in the slightest. “Look, I know I may be a bit too forward here.  But, I know a nice little spot only a few blocks from here, is there a chance a pretty sub like you would consider joining me for a drink?” Tom goes so far as to palm Clint’s elbow, his thumb rubbing circles on the flesh of his outer arm.

“No thank you.  I’m waiting on someone.” Clint pulls at his arm but Tom’s grip tightens. Clint clenches his fist. He _really_ doesn’t want to beat up a civilian in a fancy hotel lobby…again.

Tom pulls closer, “I know a taken sub when I see one. And I’m thinking that this someone isn’t too permanent. Have a drink with me.” He demands again.

Clint is about to tell Tom to fuck off because he’s really like _really_ taken.

Clint’s about to but… He feels the steel grip of Phil’s hand on his neck before he can say the words.

“No, he won’t. He’s coming with me.” Clint cringes. That’s Phil’s don’t you fucking dare tone.  The last time Clint heard that tone, Phil was talking to a mobster pointing a gun at a gas tank, in the basement of a club filled with over 200 people. Clint dislodges his elbow and gives Tom an _I told you so_ look.

Tom looks back and forth between him and Phil, a weird spark lighting his eye.

Clint rolls his eyes.  Doms love to challenge and posture and get into pissing contests.

“Oh.  I didn’t realize.  Most Doms don’t leave their subs so unattended.” Tom sneers, his gaze cold.

“Clint can take care of himself.” Phil counters dismissively.

“Yes, and he can speak for himself too. We were having a lovely conversation. It’s possible he’ll reconsider who he wants to go home with tonight.” Tom Buchanan makes a wink at Clint, an arrogant smirk painting his features.

Clint’s eyebrows shoot up.  He wonders what this looks like to Tom.  Do they look like they’re about to hook up after a holiday work party? Because it is sooo not like that. If he only knew how _not_ like that this is.

Clint chances a glance at Phil. _Shit_ —he has the half smile that is really fucking scary if you know what it means. It’s also super hot.  But that’s between Clint and Phil…for later. “Phil—“ Clint tries

“You know, Mr. Rockefeller, I’m feeling very generous tonight. I think it’s the Christmas spirit. I’ve decided I’m not going to put you in your place, in your father’s hotel.”

Tom… Rockefeller scoffs, his expression disbelieving.

Phil places his hand possessively on Clint’s middle bank. “Give my regards to Anne.”  Clint blinks.  Tom’s face suddenly blanks and his eyebrows scrunch worriedly.  Phil doesn’t let them stay long enough for any further conversation. He guides them out the glass doors and into the waiting car that the valets are watching for them. Phil tips the man that opens Clint’s door and briskly rounds the car to get in.

“Phil, fuck that was so hot. Who the fuck is Anne?”

“His wife.” Phil supplies.  Clint smiles, of course Phil knows these things.

“You’re not mad at me right?” Clint asks just to be sure. 

Phil’s fond smile is more a reassurance than his words. “No, darling. I’m actually very proud you didn’t beat up a civilian in an upscale hotel lobby.”

Clint laughs. “I’m growing.”

Phil makes a non-commital sound.

“Hey! I am. Last year that guy would have gotton socked, like immediately.”  Clint settles back into his seat. “And anyway now you’ve positively reinforced me. If you’re gonna pull that kind of show when someone hits on me, I’ll let you handle it every time.”

Phil’s are crinkle at the corners.

Clint watches the city out the window the rest of the ride back. He knows Phil doesn’t like to get into hard play when they’ve been drinking but he hopes they can at least get a little feisty. Clint keeps replaying Phil’s confident shut down of that Dom, his possessive hand on his back.  He’s ashamed because Macho Dom turn on is so cliché.  But, fuck, Macho Dom Phil in a suit is fucking porn.

Clint tries to get handsy in the elevator, but Phil just tells him to behave and wait. 

By the time Phil opens the door to the apartment and turns on the lights and sets his keys down, Clint is nearly mutinous.

Phil turns to him while loosening his tie. That fucker, he knows that gives Clint an instant hard-on.

“I’ll expect you in the bedroom, kneeling on the bed, only wearing your collar, by the time I’m done hanging up our coats.”

Clint sprints to the bedroom and hurries to comply. He’s flushed, and hard when Phil walks in only moments later.  But he’s followed his instructions.

Phil hums his approval.  He tugs Clint’s collar so that he looks his Dom in the eye. “I’m the only one that will ever get to see you like this. Hard and naked and wearing my collar.”

“Yes.”

Phil keeps a hold on the collar while he dips down for a possessive kiss that is mostly Phil fucking his tongue into Clint’s mouth unapologetically.  Clint moans like a whore, loving it and letting Phil _take_.

Phil pulls back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Suck me.” He demands.

Clint quickly unbuckles Phil’s belt and gently tugs down his fly.  He pulls down his pants just enough that he can free Phil’s cock and balls, tucking his underwear out of the way. Clint widens his kneeling stance on the bed, to get a better angle, and after a deep breath, he stuffs his mouth full of as much of Phil’s cock as he can take.

Phil groans above him, and fists his hand in Clint’s hair. “Such a good cocksucker baby.” He praises.

Clint moans around Phil’s member, loving how it hardens completely in his mouth.  They’ve done this enough times that Clint knows not to use his hands without permission.  He rests them on Phil’s thighs and looks up.  He makes sure to keep sucking, bobbing his head along Phil’s shaft like he’s been starved for it.  He always feels like this, when Phil uses him this way.  Eager and horney and subby.

“That’s it baby.  Take some more for me.”  Phil grasps Clint’s face and starts fucking into his throat.  Clint’s eyes fall shut in pleasure because Phil is certainly not gentle, gagging Clint every few thrusts and making his eyes water. “Fuck, you love this. You’re leaking on the bedspread just from getting your throat fucked.”

Clint whimpers, his cock giving a fierce throb. He _does_ love this.  He’s so turned on, if Phil gave him permission, he could easily come like this with only a few tugs to his cock.

Phil, apparently, has other plans. He uses Clint’s mouth and throat a little longer.  Pulling back intermittently to rub the head over Clint’s swollen lips.  After a bit, he pulls himself out, and watches the spit string that binds them for a few moments.  Clint knows he can’t wipe his face unless Phil says so. Phil likes him messy a lot of the time, he likes when Clint looks used.

Phil bends down and loops his tie off his neck. With the fatter end he wipes at Clint’s mouth.  Then, since the knot is still intact, Phil fastens the tie around Clint’s head and rolls the remainder into a ball, which he pushes into Clint’s mouth as a makeshift gag. Clint groans. It so fucking _dirty_.

“I knew you would like that.” Phil smiles devilishly. “Now, I want you to open yourself up.  But no more than three fingers.  I want to really stretch you out when I fuck you.” Phil pulls over his office chair and sits back in it.

Clint hurries to the nightstand to retrieve the bottle of lube.  He’s far too interested in coming on Phil’s cock, hopefully, than putting on a show. He gets back to his wide kneeling stance on the bed and reaches behind himself to wet his hole.  Once he’s satisfied that his rim is nice and lubricated, he wets his finger and shoves it in.  Clint has to stop there and breath—the temptation to touch his own cock is too intense.

To settle himself, he fixates on Phil. The fucker is languidly stroking himself, watching Clint with a heated gaze.  Clint makes sure to keep watching the Dom, willing himself not to disappointment the man even as his second finger causes him to try and beg around the tie in his mouth. The muffled litany ends in a broken whimper as he scissors his hole open.

“Such a hungry a hole.  I can see it sucking your fingers in from here.” Phil comments, his lips wet from licking them.

Clint’s cock is aching and he’s outright shaking by the time he’s got three fingers inside himself.  The only thing keeping his mind from exploding is the ability to watch Phil peel off his layers of clothing. 

“That’s enough baby.  On your back.” Phil commands.

Phil crawls over him and rests his body’s atop Clint’s, holding his weight on his forearms.  He takes a few moments to just lets his body slide over Clint’s, making him groan around the gag.  The feel of Phil’s hot cock rubbing along his own is fucking torturous.

“You’re not to come baby, I know you know this. But I’m not going to make it easy this time.”  Phil warns. He hikes Clint’s leg over his shoulder and positions the other around his waist.  Phil loves positions where Clint can be so open like this—Clint’s thankful that his circus days have made him so flexible.

With really no warning, aside from the squirt of the lube bottle, Phil lines up his cock and starts pushing in. Clint immediately arches his neck with the pain and pleasure of it.  Phil fucking knows he loves getting split open.  Something about getting stretched out over Phil’s cock and almost not being able to handle it drives Clint crazy.  He breathes through the burn until Phils all the way in and thrusting lazily.

Phil mouthes at Clint’s neck, biting into the flesh so that he’s marked up. “You’re mine Clint Barton.  My cock is the one that will be fucking you, pleasuring you, choking you, filling you up.”

Clint moans his agreement, and clenches involuntarily around Phil, wanting him as deep as he can get him.

 “Alright baby, no coming without permission.” Phil warns before he starts truly fucking Clint, pistoling his cock into Clint with rapid thrusts. Clint’s gets caught up in the sensation. His cock is leaking precome between their two bodies and his balls are aching for release.  Just to torment him more, Phil begins angling his hips to nail Clint’s prostate with each punishing stroke.

Clint yells and curses into the gag, his hands looping around Phil’s shoulders to hang on. Its so much, too much and he fucking _loves_ it. Gets high off it.

“Such a good boy Clint.  Always taking what I give you and begging for more.” Phil’s words are breathy and Clint can tell he’s close.

Phil pulls his cock so quickly out of Clint that he actually yelps in pain.  Phil grips his cock and straddles Clint’s upper chest.  Phil’s hand is a blur on his cock, stripping his member with such speed. With his free hand he yanks the tie out of Clint’s mouth and over his head.

“Open up, baby.”  Phil grunts.

Clint barely has time to comply before ropes of Phil’s come are splashing along his tongue, nose, and cheeks. Clint relishes the feeling, taste, and smell of Phil. Loving how owned and claimed he feels painted with Phil’s come.

Phil’s lips come crashing down on his, kissing him fiercely sharing the taste of his come between them.

Clint loves this too, but he’s still painfully hard. He whimpers into Phil’s mouth, pleading.

“Please sir, I can’t I…”  Clint trails off into a broken gasp.

“You’ve been so good for me Clint. Like I knew you would.” Phil moves down Clint’s body to settle between his thighs. 

Clint’s eyes widen in shock as Phil leans forward. His dominant hand thrusts, four fingers all at once, into Clint’s hole.  With his wrist facing the ceiling, Phil can curve his fingers perfectly to stroke Clint’s prostate, which he does unapologetically. Clint’s screams, his back arching at the rough finger fucking.  Phil’s not gentle with this either, just jabbing his fingers in and out, ruthlessly pounding Clint’s prostate.

Thinking this is the way Phil will make him come, his system is shocked when Phil’s mouth devours his cock moments later, sucking him to the root.

Clint’s whole body locks in a pleasure so profound, his mouth forms a wordless cry and his eyes roll back. Phil sucks him through his prolonged orgasm, draining him dry and still, still fucking his fingers mercilessly inside him.

Clint’s whole body shakes with the after shocks, causing him to clench around Phil’s hand and pump his hips listlessly into the air. In short order, it becomes too much and Clint begs for mercy.

“Sir, please its too much its too much.”

“Shhhh.” Phil slows his fingers to a soft rubbing. “Ride it out baby.”

Clint whimpers and gasps.  His cock is limp and the stimulation is almost making his nerves raw.  Phil bites sweetly at his inner thigh but continues the pressure on his gland.  Clint shudders, his hips humping Phil’s hand. He feels another orgasm building, but he’s not hard.

“No, no, sir please I can’t…” Clint’s has had a prostate orgasm before but not right after ejaculating. 

Phil changes his easy stroking to quick firm taps of threes and Clint’s legs kick out.  Phil is going to force this orgasam out of him and Clint feels his body complying—thrilled by the dominance and this different type of pain, Clint can’t help stumbling toward another orgasm.

“There you go baby, fuck yourself on my hand, let see you come again.” Phil encourages.

Clint is babbling and begging and moaning freely, feeling his climax build and build the sensations dancing deep inside him. His orgasm bursts from his prostate and consumes him entirely.  Clint screeches himself hoarse, his lower body convulsing in that way only prostate orgasms manage to achieve.

Phil keeps his fingers inside Clint until he’s come down some, so as not to shock his system.  After enough time passes, he slides his fingers out and wipes them on the bedspread.  He kisses Clint, softly, lovingly while Clint’s body tries to get right with itself.

Phil leans forward to reach the nightstand and comes back with his favorite purple butt plug.  Clint whimpers, unable to fathom the stimulation. “Sir…”

“I want you in the morning baby. I know you’ll take this for me, like a good boy.”  Phil pushes the plug in. Clint shudders but accepts it, gasping as the flared head bumps his abused prostate.  He’ll be happy when Phil can fuck him again in the morning. Fuck, he’s happy now that he’s doing something that pleases Phil so much. Phil loves open, sloppy holes and Clint loves giving it to him.

With the sizeable plug in his ass, Clint has no interest in helping with clean up.  So Phil wipes him down with a washcloth, offers him some water and tucks him under the covers.  In the distance, Clint can hear Phil brushing his teeth and taking out his contacts.

He’s only drifting when Phil joins him in bed, tugging Clint half over him like a blanket. Clint yelps as the plug shifts, but settles down quickly.

Phil’s hand fiddles with the back of the collar for a few moments before his breath deepens.

“You belong to me baby.” He whispers.

Clint responds, a little slurred, “O' course sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first WIP on the site! All feedback appreciated :)


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